


Veni, Vidi, Vici

by NorroenDyrd



Series: Amabilis Insania [14]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, Affection, Angst, Angst and Feels, Battlefield, Beating, Cassandra Pentaghast's Disgusted Noises, Closing Fade Rifts, Cole (Dragon Age) Talks A Lot, Cruelty, Depression, Dialogue Heavy, Dorks in Love, Duelling, F/M, Fade Dreams, Fade Rifts, Falling In Love, Female Friendship, Fire, Flashbacks, Ghosts, Helpful Cole, Helpful Cole (Dragon Age), Implied/Referenced Torture, Magic-Users, Magical Accidents, Mentioned Hawke, POV Multiple, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Rescue Missions, Romance, Second Chances, Sieges, Slow Burn, Social Commentary, Some Humor, Suicidal Thoughts, Teamwork, The Western Approach, Torture, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Varric Tethras Writes, Varric Tethras' Nicknames, Villains to Heroes, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-07-23 15:05:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 37,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7468308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Say what you might about him, but Gereon Alexius is certainly not a man to stop at half-measures when it comes to saving the people he cares about. Of course, sieging a heavily guarded fortress with only three other people to help him is not exactly the same as ripping a hole in time and sacrficing the world to an embodiment of the Blight; but still, he tries. He owes the Inquisitor that much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was thinking back to that quest in Origins where you and Alistair are trapped in Fort Drakon, and your buddies go to save you, and pondered over how nice it would be to have something like that in Inquisition (especially when one of those buddies is a love interest.. because incentives). And then I remembered the Griffon Wings Keep, which is supposed to be the fortified centre of Venatori operations and is taken by a team of four people... And decided that these four people could all be companions, trying to extricate the Inquisitor that has been trapped inside!

The team that Inquisitor Lavellan has gathered to meet with Hawke and Warden Stroud in the Western Approach fully matches the task at hand.  
  
There is Varric, Hawke's friend and confidante - who warned Lavellan that even if he wasn't included in the party, he'd come along anyway, because someone had to make sure that stupid redheaded human didn't get herself into trouble ('She is uncannily like you, Blueberry,' he said, shaking his head. 'Gets distracted by cheering up random people. Someone needs to keep an eye on her, and Mister Moustache of the Year is too busy figuring out what has corrupted his Warden buddies').  
  
Then, there are Cassandra and Blackwall - two staunch warriors to brave the dangers of the great desert (the latter should also prove really helpful when dealing with the Wardens, because, miraculously, he is not hearing voices like the rest of them).  
  
And finally, there is the 'source of insight into the Venatori' - former magister Gereon Alexius, who the Inquisitor has been stubbornly defending ever since her forces took him into custody. The advisors were scandalized by his inclusion, at first - but Lavellan spread out her arms and rounded her eyes and exclaimed dramatically (as she always does when someone suggests that the ex-magister is still her enemy),  
  
'Oh please! We've been over this a hundred times already! What do you think he'll do, defect back to the Venatori? In case you forgot my report on the dark future, he only did what he did because the Elder One promised a cure for his son - who, quite sadly, passed away a while ago, which means that the Venatori no longer have the, uh, what do you call it...'  
  
'Leverage,' Leliana concluded the sentence, with an air of someone who knows all too well what the word implies.  
  
'But didn't the reports from Redcliffe also say that, just before he sent you forward through time, the man ranted about how Tevinter will rule from sea to sea with the Elder One in power?' Cullen pointed out. 'The leverage may be gone, but what if he is still enchanted with Corypheus' cause? Roaming around Skyhold is one thing, but we cannot risk having him come into contact with his former brethren!'  
  
'You think he is a risk, the Inquisitor thinks he is not,' Josephine said, with determination in her voice. 'We can continue to drive ourselves insane with circular arguments, or we can show that the Inquisition is truly open to letting people do good deeds, regardless of their past. Like the Grey Wardens are'.  
  
At this point, Leliana's stance grew tenser, and the conversation veered suddenly into a completely different vein.  
  
'Do I hear traces of Ser Blackwall's influence? I warned that man to...'  
  
'Ah, yes, Leliana - I have been meaning to talk to you about that! An innocent in love, am I? I will have you know that Blackwall and I were perfectly capable of resolving all the doubts we had without you hovering behind our backs with bared daggers!'  
  
Starting from here, the two women switched to arguing in rapid, evidently very emotional Orlesian, while the Commander buried his burning face in his fluffy collar, and the Inquisitor sauntered out, considering the matter settled.  
  
  
She must have caught up with her ex-magister friend somewhere along the way, for when the two human warriors and the dwarven rogue gathered at the gates of Skyhold, ready to leave, they arrived to meet them together, talking in lowered voices and smiling - a gentle, intimate sort of smile, like a sign of affection reserved for someone very special. And to the utter shock of Seeker Cassandra, they were holding hands!   
  
Neither Blackwall nor Varric became as petrified as she was, while she gaped at the way the aging Tevinter mage and the youthful elven Inquisitor wove their fingers together. Perhaps it was because the Warden and the dwarf had grown accustomed to Lavellan's tendency to grow extremely generous with handshakes and embraces when she felt that someone needed cheering up. But they did not know what she, Cassandra, had learned during the recent session of what one might call 'girl talk' with Lavellan. They had no reason to become confused.  
  
Really, Cassandra commented to herself, frowning till her forehead began to hurt, as Lavellan and Alexius greeted the rest of the travelling party (the Inquisitor did most of the talking, while the magister simply stood next to her, still holding her hand and smiling - and somehow looking less old and tired than Cassandra usually remembered him).   
  
Really, she repeated, shaking her head, as they slowly set off on their way, and Lavellan finally unlocked her fingers from Alexius' - but not before catching a moment when Varric and Blackwall turned away, and standing on tiptoe to brush her lips swiftly against the sharp slope of his cheekbone (Cassandra kept a close eye on him when Lavellan raced ahead to scout the road, and noticed that he kept touching the place where the elf had kissed him, his expression so uncharacteristically dreamy that he might as well have been an entirely different man).   
  
Really, she keeps saying under her breath even now, as, after a long and arduous journey, which has consisted of stretches of trekking and long carriage rides, they are finally drawing near the Inquisition's first camp amongst the vast sandy flatlands known as the Western Approach (with Lavellan and Alexius exchanging furtive glances now and again, with hardly more dignity than a couple of Templar initiates who think they can escape their vigilant commanding officer and steal a few kisses behind the barracks).  
  
Really!   
  
This elf's personal life is growing more tangled up than the plot of Varric's romance serial! One moment, she says that she has feelings for this man; the next, she brushes them off as irrelevant because he has (somehow!) become involved with someone else - and now here they are, side by side, brimming over with what looks like the purest, most genuine happiness and contentment! Has the magister parted ways with that other mystery lover? Or maybe Lavellan simply became confused, and there never was one? Or - by the Maker, she will kill him if that proves true! - or maybe the wicked mage is toying with the Inquisitor? Maybe Cassandra was too quick to apologize to him?  
  
These questions have been troubling Cassandra throughout the entire journey, buzzing inside her head and stinging at her more viciously than Sera's notorious bottled bees. She has been itching to corner the magister, pin him against some hard surface with her sword again, and squeeze the truth out of him! It is unworthy of her to continue prying into Lavellan's life like that, especially after the elf herself has been so understanding and only listened to Cassandra's recollections of her brother when she was ready... But Maker's breath, it is so infuriating not to know for certain if this Alexius is truly the loyal companion Lavellan is trying to turn him into! Cassandra was almost ready to believe that - but then this... real-life romance serial came along! If only she could flip a few pages forward and learn the - how does Varric call them? - spoilers!  
  
While the Seeker has been writhing in a desperate inner monologue, the easy-going dwarf has been trying to get Alexius to join him and Blackwall in friendly party banter. The Warden does not seem too keen on the idea, mostly grunting into his beard and shaking his head - perhaps to express his disbelief that he is actually supposed to explore the wilderness together with yet another Tevinter. But for Varric, what with that snowball game they played together, getting the 'Time Lord' to talk is far easier.  
  
'So', he says, trudging a few paces behind Alexius, across a terrain that is steadily growing more and more arid and sandy. 'How is that teleportation thing going?'  
  
'We have not abandoned the project,' the magister replies, his tone reserved, but not hostile. 'The Arcanist is far too keen on the idea to stop experimenting - as, I confess, am I. Also, someone has to be there and remind her to be careful... Especially when threatened with a kick in a certain place by her ragged guardian'.  
  
Varric grins.  
  
'Good to hear that Buttercup is back to her old self again! And hey, lemme know when you and Dagna actually invent a teleport... thing. It will be a great excuse to have non-mage enemies suddenly appear in front of my heroes!'  
  
Shortly after that little exchange, they finally arrive at a tiny Inquisition outpost, tucked away into an oasis under the shelter of gigantic bright-red rocks, with waves and waves of sand stretching out beyond the rocky pass, underneath a burning pallid sky. As always, the Inquisitor and her companions are greeted by Scout Harding, who looks not quite like her usual optimistic self - maybe because she has spent too much time in the clutches of the great desert's stifling hot breath, which has left a glistening, sticky mark on her freckled face.  
  
In the middle of her report on the potential dangers lurking within this land (including a high dragon, if you were to believe the half-delirious account of another scout, who got too close to the fuming sulfur springs), Harding manages to catch a closer glimpse of Alexius.  
  
'Oh hey there!' she says, smiling and nodding. 'I remember you! From the time when you fixed that tavern roof with magic! So you are firmly on our side now, eh?'  
  
'Apparently so', Cassandra says stiffly. 'This man's purpose here is to help us - and Hawke - '  
  
She glares very meaningfully at Varric, who thrusts his hands behind his back and whistles (while slanting his eyes at her to see just how much his teasing is going to ruffle her proverbial feathers).  
  
'To help all of us determine what the Venatori are doing here'.  
  
'Then it looks like I have a task for him already!' Harding declares, gesturing towards an impromptu writing station that they scouts have assembled out of mismatched wooden planks next to one of the tents. 'Shortly before you got here, we intercepted a Venatori messenger and, uh, persuaded him to give up the orders he was carrying. But it turns out none of us can make head or tail of them, because they are written in complete gibberish. The messenger gloated at us and said the Venatori have a special code or something... So we tried to persuade him further, to get him to tell us the code - but he lunged at us, with magic burning in his hands... and, well...'  
  
She sighs.  
  
'He died'.   
  
Alexius closes his eyes momentarily and whispers, his voice slow and mournful,  
  
'The Elder One lured so many to his side with a promise to breathe life back into our crumbling empire. Little did they know how many undaunted Inquisition agents would stand in their way...'  
  
'Can you decipher the code?' Cassandra demands loudly, her hand resting on her sword hilt.  
  
Alexius looks up.  
  
'I shall certainly try. Rest assured, Seeker, just because I feel sympathy towards that hapless messenger does not mean I shall jeopardize your cause. I have too much to lose if I do'.  
  
With that, he exchanges yet another silent smile with Inquisitor Lavellan, and walks towards the rickety desk, which is buried under a stack of area maps and bestiary excerpts (with feral phoenixes and hyenas and quillbacks grinning toothily from the pages). The coded message lies on the very top of the paper heap; the former magister picks it up and peers at it thoughtfully, his lips moving as he mutters something faintly to himself. This something, however, is far from coherent, and after Alexius spends almost a minute without uttering anything out loud, Cassandra decides to egg him on with an impatient 'Well?'.  
  
'The code here is somewhat different from what we... from what the Venatori used in the Redcliffe area,' Alexius explains, abandoning his intensive reading for a moment. 'But it is still derived from Tevene, so I can more or less surmise the general meaning. It seems that the Red Templars used to have a "mining operation" here...'  
  
'Knowing these twisted bastards, there is only one thing they can mine for,' Blackwall says grimly. 'That evil poisoned lyrium'.  
  
Despite the broiling heat, Varric shivers.  
  
Alexius nods and goes on, glancing back at the coded message for reference,  
  
'They then terminated their operations, and in their absence, the remaining servants of the Elder One are to... to focus on the... the relic hunt? Well, that sounds reasonable, seeing how many Tevinter ruins are scattered around the region... And I think that the message also says something about... The summoning? Yes, I do believe that's it... The summoning'.  
  
'That doesn't sound good,' Varric says. 'Damn it doesn't!'  
  
'This summoning must be what Hawke referred to in her letters from the Approach,' Lavellan muses. 'So... Let's head out and look for her, I suppose? She's gotta be wherever most of the spooky stuff is happening. It's a pity she didn't write clearer directions than "Meet me in the desert xoxoxo", though.'  
  
'I'd suggest finding a vantage point,' Blackwall remarks, turning his head to the left and to the right. 'To figure out where we're at. Maybe we'll even spot some Venatori; shouldn't be too hard with nothing but bloody sand all around. They'd stick out like sore thumbs, in those stupid hoods of theirs'.  
  
And so, after refilling their flasks from the water skins at the campsite and bidding their goodbye to Scout Harding, the Inquisitor and her fellow travellers continue their trek, walking in single file up a long sandy slope, their silhouettes outlined in a dull shade of brown against the orange desert and the yellowish sky. Lavellan heads the little procession, deliberately scooping up some sand with the tips of her boots before she makes the next step - just to see the dusty clouds that she raises. Even though she is affected by the heat almost as much as the panting, fully armoured warriors, with soggy traces of sweat drawing dark lines under her arms and along her spine, she still manages to enjoy studying her new surroundings, which are nothing like the hills and forests and mountains that she has thoroughly explored so far. Strictly speaking, she did see a tiny corner of this great red wilderness before, but this is her first time journeying across such a vast desert.  
  
The stark colours of the dry dust and the sun-scorched stone; the otherworldly bridges and arches that have, over the course of centuries, been carved out of the massive slabs of red rock by the hot desert winds; the stately Tevinter statues lying overturned on the ground, half-buried underneath layer upon wave-like layer of sand and looking on at the decaying wilderness with a sneer of contempt frozen on their metal faces - all of this seems to mesmerize her. Where others (like, for instance, Blackwall, who gazes ahead and says bitterly, 'Maker's balls... All of this was done by the Blight...') see a nothing but a wasteland, her gaze seems to capture calm, sombre beauty. Different from the lush sacred groves of the Emerald Graves, or the mist-shrouded cliffs rising over the Exalted Plains, or the sparkling lakes that dot the Hinterlands  - but still worthy of contemplation, admiration even.  
  
Alexius appears to read these thoughts in Lavellan's awe-struck countenance, and his own expression grows profoundly moved, for some reason - which, in turn, gets noticed by Cassandra, who is now even more uncertain whether to treat his behaviour around the Inquisitor as suspicious or... or maybe... romantic?  
  
As she takes in the surrounding desert landscape, Lavellan suddenly spots a lonesome little elfroot plant, clinging on to a rocky ledge overhead - a tiny stroke of green amid the various shades of red and orange. The sight of the plant makes the elf almost visibly prick up her pointy ears; whereas her eyes seem to begin sparkling, as she strays from the path and places one foot on the first of several large boulders that lean against one another and form a sort of a natural staircase, leading right up to the ledge where the elfroot is growing.  
  
'Please be careful!' Alexius says, not bothering to conceal just how alarmed he is.  
  
'She can't hear you, Time Lord,' Varric points out, watching Lavellan pull herself up on top of the next boulder. 'She's gone into her Looter Mode. Won't turn back until she picks that elfroot'.  
  
Surely enough, the little elf seems to be filled with great determination as she steadily ascends towards her leafy prize. Her eyes fixed on the elfroot, she does not notice how, when she is just about to reach the beckoning ledge, a chunk of rock gets shaken loose under the dusty sole of her boot. When, for a moment, she presses all her weight against that rock, using it as a stepping stone to reach the top of her climb, it begins to roll downwards with a loud grinding noise. It moves slowly at first, giving Lavellan enough time to find a firm footing on the topmost  ledge; but in a matter of a few moments, the falling rock speeds up, bringing down the other boulders with it.  
  
With a warning cry, Blackwall leaps forward and just barely manages to grab the Tevinter mage (who is too busy watching the elf) by the collar of his robe and pull him out of harm's way. In the meanwhile, Cassandra little short of tucks Varric under her arm and darts to the side, a fraction of a second before an enormous slab of red stone lands in the very place where the dwarf was standing.  
  
The stifling orange-tinted cloud that is left in the rockfall's wake blinds and disorients the Seeker. Having strayed away from the firm ground of the path, she stumbles awkwardly, with her feet sinking ankle-deep in the sand; and when the dust finally settles, she finds herself lying on top of Varric, staring right into his rugged, smug face and feeling as if her ears are being slowly devoured by flame.  
  
'Now that is the kind of scene I wrote many, many times,' Varric murmurs, one corner of his mouth sliding up.  
  
Cassandra glares at him silently - and thanks the Maker for sending along Blackwall, who calls out just at this moment,  
  
'Is everyone all right?'  
  
'Yessir!' the dwarf responds. 'This elfroot better have some mystical healing powers, Blueberry!'  
  
'I am so, so sorry!' Lavellan calls back, peeking over the Ledge's edge. 'I didn't mean to set off a landslide like that!'  
  
'That does seem to be your specialty,' Alexius cuts in, his tone just a tiny bit snarky. 'The Red Templars can attest to that!'  
  
'Can you find another way down, Yavanna?' Cassandra asks, hastening to get up and dust off her armour (she does it so aggressively that one might think the poor little particles of sand have done something to personally offend her).  
  
'It is rather high for a jump!'  
  
'I'm on it!' Lavellan says energetically, brandishing the elfroot (which she did pick).  
  
She turns around and surveys the other side of the ledge. The drop is far smoother here, thanks to a dense layer of sand. All Lavellan has to do is step over the edge (not forgetting to tuck the elfroot into the special pouch that she carries attached to her belt) and slide down the slope, giggling cheerfully and flapping her arms. Towards the end of her sledding in the sand, she loses balance and rolls over a few times, eventually plopping down to the ground, right new to several pairs of feet. Feet that definitely do not belong to her scouts. Or her companions. Or (judging by the way the feet's owners loom over her, while she lies in the sand, blinking and spitting out the tiny grains that got edged between her teeth) anyone remotely friendly.


	2. Chapter 2

Lavellan pushes herself up on her elbows and stares ahead through a blurry, moist film in her eyes, the sun blazing mercilessly bright and hot overhead. Presently, the hazy silhouettes that surround her, silent and menacing, take a more definite shape. The strangers in whose midst she has landed turn out to be a group of deeply tanned human warriors, all dressed in similar greyish-brown shirts (fashioned out of some sort of light, breathy cloth to help them move effortlessly in the desert heat); and all wearing the same simple necklace - a white, claw-shaped pendant tied to a bit of coarse string. Lavellan assumes that this has to be some sort of identifying sign - and she turns out to be right, for one of the warriors, a short, broad-faced, fierce-looking woman in a leather helmet, whips out a blade and points down at the elf's chest, barking gruffly,  
  
'You ain't gonna hop no further, rabbit. These here plains belong to the White Claw Raiders'.  
  
Lavellan gives the raider a sheepish smile, preparing to reassure her that she did not mean to cause any trouble (unless, of course, the White Claws were planning to rob some innocent people, in which case she would kindly ask them to please, please not do that, for everyone's sake). But before she can even begin to explain herself, she feels that tell-tale pulse bubbling underneath the flesh of her left palm. A few seconds later, the pulse is followed by a sizzle of mage fire, which bursts out of her skin in a scorching flash, as the Mark of the Fade reacts to a nearby tear in the Veil between the two worlds. Lavellan cannot see exactly where the fabric of this plane has worn thin - not yet, anyway; but in the meanwhile, the Mark keeps burning, spitting out bright green sparks with a sort of intermittent hiss, as though it is choking on its own light.   
  
The raiders stagger back, gaping at Lavellan, then at one another, and then at that woman, who is still bending over the elf, her lips slowly drawing into a leer.  
  
'Well now,' she says, making a small smacking sound with her mouth, as if anticipating a tasty treat. 'You're no ordinary bunny, eh? You're that Herald, aintcha? The one our generous new bosses are so pissed at? If they pay us this much to scare off travellers, I bet they'll double the price if we bring 'em your head on a pike!'  
  
'Make sure everyone gets a cut of the bounty,' one of the other raiders - a fidgety, oily-haired sort of fellow with a tiny tuft of curling black down clinging on to his sharp chin - points out from the back.   
  
'Of course,' the woman says, as she raises her weapon in a swooshing upswing.  
  
Lavellan gathers herself up, aiming to kick the female raider in the stomach before she can bring her blade down. But that proves to be unnecessary:  just as her upswing reaches its highest point (which is quite impressive for her own height) and the weapon is about to come rushing towards the elf's exposed neck, the downy-chinned raider who called for a split of the bounty lets out a hoarse cry, which then turns into a shrill sob of pain, and promptly fades away into a stifled bubbling, noise at the back of his throat.   
  
As the entire gang of White Claws, along with their elven captive, turns to see what has happened, they discover that the ground underneath the hapless raider's feet has caked over with a cracking, crimson crust, so hot to stand on that the soles of the man's boots begin to smoke, a tang of burning leather scorching at the noses and throats of those standing nearest to him. This smell is soon joined by another, even more nauseating - the smell of flesh consumed by flame. For this bizarre, frightening burst of heat, coming from somewhere underneath the sand, was just a warning signal. In a matter of seconds, the parched earth gives way and, like a worm crawling out of the bowels of the soil, a large, faceless creature emerges into the pale-yellow daylight. On its way, it sinks its long, blood-red claws into the downy-chinned raider. Writhing, choking, screaming, the poor man is set ablaze, for the monstrous worm that has grabbed him is moulded out of liquid fire, constantly shifting from one shade of red to another, just like the hot sand is shifting all around it. A few more seconds race by, and the fiery creature casts its victim aside - and the raider's charred, brittle black husk lands on the pearly layer of glass that the sand has melted into.  
  
The monster rears its head, which looks like a wax mask that was thrown into the flames and got turned into a blurry grimace with a twisted, enraged mouth - and glides towards the rest of the petrified little mortals, ready to burn them into a crisp as well. Behind its back, it leaves a faint trail of shimmering green light. Like a ghostly cord, it connects the creature to a broad gash in the Veil, which seems to have finally manifested itself, a few feet above ground, splashing and rippling like some sort of bizarre, vertical pool, with no bottom to be seen through the heaving waves of green.  
  
'It's a Rift!' Lavellan screams, scrambling to her feet and addressing the White Claws - the very same cutthroats who have just been pondering over the bounty on her head - exactly the way she has addressed countless lost soldiers and terrified peasants and tearful children that looked up to the Inquisition to save them from the madness of the Breach.  
  
'Come on! We've got to work together! Help me banish this rage demon, and I can close the thing for good!'  
  
Her rallying cry seems to make the raiders pull themselves together and shake off some of their horror-struck daze. The archers aim their bows, and the fierce little woman tightens the grip on her blade and races across the scorched earth, dodging the patches of glazed sand, with her eyes focused on the flaming creature. The elf, too, does not stand idle: after fumbling for a few moments behind her back, she readies her twin daggers and approaches the spawn of the Fade, her legs bent slightly in the knee as she waits for the right moment to pounce.   
  
She keeps preparing to launch an attack up until the point when the demonic creature comes face to face with the female raider, its massive, hunched back bristling with a row of charred arrows - the result of the ranged assault by the rest of the White Claws. The shots have had little effect, other than aggravating the fiery beast further; this quells the raiders' enthusiasm somewhat, and some among them even take to whimpering fearfully. To top it all, it seems that the monster from the Fade is going to take out all of its rage on the feisty swordswoman before it.   
  
The monster swats at its prey with one of its disproportionately long, glowing arms, just barely missing. Still, even though the raider escapes its deadly touch, it does manage to touch the blade that the woman is pointing at it. The creature's red-hot claws brushing briefly against the weapon is all that it takes for the metal to heat up, as if it were returned back to the forge where it was shaped into a sword. Her eyes bulging, the raider stares at the glaring white strip that her weapon has turned into; luckily, her dazed mind still functions well enough to figure out that she needs to drop the blade before it melts the skin off her palm. As she lets go of its hilt, her fingers quivering and already beginning to sport large, watery blisters, the white-hot sword sinks softly into a nearby mound of sand; with a heavy breath, the raider stumbles backwards - and then slips on one of the puddle-like splashes of glass that appeared on the ground at the monster's touch. There is a sickly crunching noise as her ankle bends to the side at an unnatural angle; it is followed by a spitting, many-tiered curse that apparently involves the demon, its mother, and someone's exceptionally large, hairy, and smelly privates. The spawn of the Fade, however, seems to have little interest in the linguistic curios of the world beyond the Veil; instead, it apparently prefers thoroughly roasting a new helping of human flesh. But even though the White Claws (with the whimpering ones now being in a majority) do not really have it in them to interrupt the demon's cooking session, there is still someone who does.   
  
As Lavellan watches the creature tower over the female human, with its blazing claws ready to rip her apart (just as it happened to that first unfortunate raider), her pupils shrink in intense concentration. Gathering herself up into a tight spring, the elf lifts one of her daggers to her face and closes her jaws around its hilt; with one hand free (its palm still throbbing with eerie Fade magic), she dives into one of the many pouches strapped to her belt and takes out a tall, cloudy flask, touched by an intricate layer of rime, which does not dissolve even in the blazing sunlight or the fiery aura of the demonic creature. With a practiced speed, she uncorks the flask, pours the contents over herself, and then tosses it aside, gripping her second dagger once again.  
  
The pale-blue liquid that was contained inside the vessel wraps her into a billowing snowy cloak; after it envelops her whole, the spring of her battle stance finally unwinds. Like an icy arrow, she shoots towards the demon; the magical essence from her flask shields her from the angry flame tongues and allows her to wound the creature by sinking her twin blades deep into its ember-like flesh. She then hastens to leap back before her frost shield can wear thin; and while she is sheathing her daggers, the burst of clear blue that they released reaches the demon's heart, making its body grow dark and cold, like the barren, charred trees left behind after a forest fire. With a deep, echoing groan, the creature sags down to the ground, wasting away into a trailing thread of grey smoke, which, in turn, travels  through the air towards the Rift.  
  
The deep, pool-like fissure in the Veil sucks in the demon's remains greedily; and after it does, Lavellan casts a brief, worried look at the heavily breathing female raider that lies wriggling in the sand, unable to get up.   
  
'I'll see what I can do to help you,' she says reassuringly. 'Just please wait a moment'.  
  
With that, she turns back to the Rift and reaches toward it with an open palm, the Anchor in her flesh spitting out even more green light than up until now. Standing on tiptoe with a focused frown on her face and the remnants of enchanted ice still swirling around her like silky ribbons, the elf bends her arm in the elbow several times, as if trying to push shut a door. This makes the Fade's mark swell into a massive spear of light, which pierces the very heart of the Rift, sinking deep into its splashing, glowing green waters. For a fleeting instant, the air all around the elf and the raiders seems to be replaced by an overpowering torrent of acid green - which promptly begins to ebb, giving way to the pale, cloudless sky. The gateway into the world of demons has been sealed, and the White Claws are left with nothing to do but gawk at the blank space where it once was.   
  
Yes, and deal with the elf.   
  
As soon as her hero's work is done, Lavellan flaps her Marked hand in the air, puffing at it comically, as though trying to put out the green light of the Fade. Gradually, the Anchor stops sizzling and completely retracts underneath her flesh (though more likely of its own accord than due to the elf's puffing). After that, the elf squats down next to the human and peers at her injured leg.  
  
'It's a pity I'm not a healer,' she sighs, shaking her head. 'But my... One of my friends is. They should be out there, beyond this ridge; I could fetch them, and...'  
  
'Or I could fetch _my_ friends,' the raider says suddenly, the leer returning to her face.  
  
She is still speaking when she leans towards the elf, locks her grip tightly around her adversary's upper torso (admirably ignoring her own angry blisters) and pulls her down to the ground. Pinned underneath the human's weight, Lavellan attempts to shake herself free. Still, the raider keeps her hold on the elf, twisting her arms behind her back till this brings out a short, shrill cry of pain. Smirking in satisfaction, the raider applies even more pressure to the elf's body, listening intently for the sound of bones cracking.  
  
'Oh look, rabbit: we've both broken something!' she taunts maliciously. 'I'd like to see you wave your magic hand around now!'  
  
Continuing to hold Lavellan down, the woman looks up at her fellow White Claws and adds, her voice hoarse and impatient,  
  
'Well? Don't just stand there, you louts! Help me get up and haul this beastie to that Mac... Mac... Mackerel fellow in Griffon Wings Keep!'  
  
One of the raiders, an awkward lad, just barely out of his teens, with a long neck that starts right underneath his mouth, stares at her in disbelief.  
  
'But... But she just saved your life! You can't take her to the Vints! They'll kill her, or... or worse!'  
  
'Stupid farm boy,' another White Claw (with much more jaw and wrinkles) gives him a contemptuous look. 'You heard what she said, before that fire thingy showed up and ate Ferret! There's gonna be a bounty!..'  
  
He cuts himself short and picks up the bow that he tossed aside when he grew too overwhelmed by his fear of the demon. Readying an arrow, he slowly draws back the string, and aims at the female raider - who starts violently and spits out another curse.  
  
'What do you think you're doing, you bastard?! I caught you this rabbit! I was the one who fought that... thing the hardest! I...'  
  
'You're crippled,' the heavy-jawed raider says simply. 'And unlike this here bunny, you don't have a price for your head. So... I dunno about the rest of the boys, but I sure ain't dragging you on my back all the way to Griffon Wings... Besides, old Ferret was right. We all wanna our share. And after the crap we just saw, it better be a big one!'  
  
With that, he lets go of the bowstring. The woman's pupils turn into tiny pinpoints as, shocked and terrified, she catches a glimpse of the arrowtip... The last thing she ever sees before it pierces her socket.   
  
Some of the raiders whistle; others let out grunts of respect, turning towards the heavy-jawed marksman in hopes that he will consider them worthy of a cut of the spoils. The farm boy gags, his eyes widening, and mutters weakly,  
  
'So that's what "earning easy money" really is...'  
  
The marksman, who has already begun to saunter towards the battered-down elf, looks at him over his shoulder and says,  
  
'You don't like it? I've still got plenty of arrows left'.  
  
'N-no!' the farm boy stammers. 'N-n-no! It's fine!.. It's all... fine...'  
  
'Good,' the older man says, bending over the 'bunny' and giving her a few kicks with his tall, heavy boot - to make sure that she is no shape to fight back.   
  
'Good. Let's be off to see Mackerel then'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mackerel is, of course, Macrinus, the leader of the Venatori that are holed up in Griffon Wing Keep. From the few phrases of dialogue he utters before you kill him, I got the impression that he is a real fanatic, so his encounter with the Inquisitor will get... disturbing.


	3. Chapter 3

Soon after Lavellan disappeared over the ridge, Cassandra motioned the other travellers to keep following the path, which would supposedly bring them to the same point as the elf's shortcut. They did not walk too far before the sky overhead, somewhere beyond the surrounding mounds of sand, was slashed by a sizzling whip of green light.   
  
'Another Rift,' Blackwall said, looking up at the throbbing tear in the Veil and squinting, with his hand shielding his eyes against the green flare of the heavens. 'We'd better hurry up and help Yavanna deal with it!'  
  
And so, here they are. They have walked across the desert as fast as they could, with a visibly agitated Alexius constantly darting ahead by means of that Fade Step spell (Cassandra reached for her blade when he first did that, fearing that he might use magic to escape custody and do what Cullen had feared; but apparently, the only thought on the magister's mind has been to get to the Inquisitor's side as soon as possible).  
  
Casting worried looks at the sky time and again, they have rushed up the path to the top of the jagged ridge, and then taken a sharp downward turn and retraced their steps through the sands on the other side. By the time they reach the place where (roughly) Yavanna must have landed if she slid down the sandy slope, the Rift is already long gone. The sky is calm once again, and the huge white disk burns blank and indifferent over what looks like a recent battlefield.  
  
The earth underneath the travellers' feet is scarred with black scorch marks; and several patches of sand have been turned to glass by an immense blast of heat - fire magic, no doubt; the Rift they saw must have spat out a demonic creature woven out of pure, burning rage, like the one they banished from the caves underneath Crestwood not too long ago.  
  
In some places, there are arrows sticking out of the ground as well; and as he is having a look around, grumbling something about 'blasted rage demons', Varric bumps his foot against a curious lump of metal, which turns out to be a half-melted blade. And then, of course, there are a couple of discoveries of a slightly more daunting nature.  
  
The first is the body of a woman, seemingly untouched by the magical flame that raged over these sands. She lies so still on her soft, orange-tinted earthy blanket that it might even have seemed that she is resting - if it were not for the way her limbs are twisted uncomfortably underneath her and her head is thrown back, exposing a bloodstained neck, with a claw-shaped pendant tied around it. Even at a distance, it is obvious the corpse could not possibly belong to the Inquisitor: this unfortunate woman seems to be built heavier and is wearing completely different clothing (soiled and ragged and brownish-grey in colour, rather than the little elf's preferred happy shades of green); and her skin tone, while swarthy, does not quite match Lavellan's. Still, Cassandra does approach the body and lean down and inspect it, just to make certain. All three men follow her with their eyes; Varric and Blackwall have their usual 'Sorry bastards' expression, which clouds their features every time they look upon the damage left in the wake of yet another tear in the Veil; whereas Alexius grows sickly pale, a painful little tick pulsing in the corner of his mouth.  
  
Her hand gripping the dead woman underneath the jaw, Cassandra tilts the raider's head and studies her face. Even though crisscrossed with uneven threads of caked blood and horribly disfigured by the arrow that hit the poor soul in the eye, the woman's features are still fairly discernible - and, as might have been expected, they are nothing like Lavellan's.   
  
With a solemn sigh, the Seeker tears the arrow out of the corpse's socket and then passes her hand over the slain woman's eyelids, making them slide shut.  
  
'This has to be one of those White Claw raiders Scout Harding warned us about,' she says. 'Maker have mercy on her wretched soul'.  
  
'I wonder what happened here,' Blackwall muses, giving Cassandra a hand with straightening herself up (not that she needs it, but the Warden does not seem to miss a chance to show some chivalry).  
  
'This raider obviously wasn't killed by the demon from the Rift - but she wasn't killed by Yavanna, either: the girl favours daggers, not bow and arrow. And where on earth did she go off to?'  
  
Cassandra might have said something to Blackwall in reply - but she is interrupted by a sharp, terrified outcry... which is coming from Alexius.  
  
As it happens, the second unsettling discovery that has been awaiting the Inquisitor's companions is also a human corpse - or rather, a large, charred, vaguely human-shaped object resting in the middle of the biggest streak of blackened sand. Almost all of that hapless person's flesh has been turned into a gooey dark-red mass, with the white of a rib or a bone peeking out here and there. Unlike the remains of the female raider, this body will prove much, much harder to identify - and in this uncertainty, Alexius has already assumed the worst.  
  
He is the first to notice the second corpse, and when he does, he makes a few staggering steps on the spot, the white colour of his face darkening to greenish-grey. Breathing heavily and staring ahead of himself, he, yet again, propels himself forward with the use of Fade magic and sinks to his knees next to the blackened carcass. The other two humans and the dwarf stumble after him, ankle-deep in sand, also beginning to feel the same mounting, throbbing fear as he is.   
  
Shaking all over as if the desert around him has suddenly turned bitter cold, Alexius passes his hands over what must have once been the corpse's shoulders, frantically searching for something, anything, that might tell him who this was before the fire devoured their skin and mangled their flesh. And he finds it - half-melted and deeply imprinted into the caked, flaky black cinders on the charred body's chest, but still recognizable. A pendant in the shape of a white claw.  
  
Alexius swallows hard, some colour returning to his face; the other travellers exchange relieved looks behind his back, but he himself still does not appear too convinced. Half-closing his eyes and filling his lungs with air, he murmurs a long incantation in Tevene. Cassandra and Blackwall both stiffen, as the air around them begins to crackle with magical energy and a wisp of soft purple light weaves itself out of thin air, floating past them as it follows the sound of the magister's voice. They have seen this spell before: Dorian occasionally uses similar necromantic magic (which, apparently, is not a great concern for anyone in Tevinter) to revive recently fallen enemies so that they can briefly fight under his command. The magister couldn't be planning to turn the charred corpse against them... Could he?  
  
The suspicion flashes through the two warriors' minds as briefly as the wisp flashes through the air: soon enough, they see that is was completely unfounded. All that Alexius does, after the purple threads of magic pull the burnt carcass up from the ground, is open his eyes again and look at the shape that the wisp recreates for him, dressing the sooty bones in translucent, glowing flesh. The ghostly form that rises before him does not belong to Lavellan; it is that of a man (yet another nameless White Claw Raider), with a sharp, elongated face, framed by strands of greasy hair, and a tiny curling beard. For a few seconds, the apparition hovers above ground in silence; then, the purple light fades, and the carcass comes crumbling down again, worn down by the spell into a handful of black ash.  
  
Then, and only then does Alexius dare to allow himself a shaky sigh of relief, which abruptly turns into a little laugh, jerking, unnatural, bordering on hysteria.  
  
'It isn't her!' he repeats, his mouth twitching. 'It isn't her! This time, it isn't her!'  
  
'What do you mean, this time?' Cassandra asks demandingly, as she comes a couple of more steps closer to Alexius. 'What are you hinting at?'  
  
'Shh, leave him be, Seeker,' Varric steps in, speaking in a lowered, meaningful voice, while his eyes take in the magister's stance very intently, slowly lighting up with understanding.   
  
'See how he's on his knees? You were there when we first nabbed the guy; don't you remember? He had the exact same pose when he talked to that kid of his. And any writer will tell you that repetitions can be very important... symbolic even'.  
  
Cassandra knits her eyebrows thoughtfully. According to Lavellan, the magister's son meant the world to him (literally); and if the thought of her possibly being dead is just as crushing to him as the thought of his son being dead... If he was ready to use all kinds of magic just to make sure that this body wasn't hers... This has to mean that his feelings are genuine!.. Maker's breath, it can't be right to find the sight of another's pain so... uplifting - but she can't help it. She has been fretting over the magister's motivations with regards to Lavellan for far too long, and now it looks like she can finally shed that burden off her shoulders.  
  
Following a sudden inexplicable impulse, the Seeker squats down in the sand next to Alexius and rests her hand on his.  
  
'No, it is not the Inquisitor,' she says reassuringly. 'We have all seen that... At least this unnatural meddling with human corpses has proved useful for once'.  
  
She jerks her head from side to side, annoyed by her own digression.  
  
'What... What I meant to say was... She is still out there. We will find her. She has been through worse misadventures and come back unscathed'.  
  
Alexius turns his head towards Cassandra, looking right through her. The Seeker has no way of knowing it - but instead of her stern, scarred face, he is seeing it all again, with overpowering clarity. The body that was brought to him, when he returned home, tired after his business trip, looking forward to spending Satinalia with his wife and son. The waxen face that, by some cruel jest of fate, looked exactly like hers; like his Livia's. He wanted to be wrong, to be delusional, dreaming, drunk, hallucinating; he wanted to stop seeing these deep, cold shadows that sculpted her features into an unmoving mask, or those cruel bruised markings on her neck, where the hurlock had gripped her as she shielded Felix with her body. He wanted to stop feeling that touch of ice on her lips when he leaned down to kiss her. But he never did stop - his senses were not lying. _That time_ , it was her. _That time_ , all his fears proved real. _That time_ , without warning, without premonition, his whole world sank into blackness, and all the love and warmth he had within him was wrung violently out of his heart. And now that the wound has almost closed, he is not certain if he will be able to live through all of this one more time.  
  
'I can't lose her,' he mouths, forcibly returning himself back to the present. 'Not Yavanna... Not again... I am too old, too tired... I can't...'  
  
'Come on, Time Lord!' Varric approaches the magister from the other side and extends his hand (more as a friendly gesture than a way of assisting the human with getting to his feet, as the good dwarf is barely taller standing up than Alexius on his knees). 'Don't work yourself into a heatstroke! Blueberry will be just fine!'  
  
Alexius glances up at him, with his lips still quivering but his breath seeming to grow less shallow.  
  
'I... Please excuse this little display,' he says, as he gets up (acknowledging the dwarf's genial offer of help with a nod, but managing to straighten up by himself).   
  
'Perhaps an explanation is in order. It may seem odd to all of you, outrageous even - but... The Inquisitor and I have become... close over the past few weeks... And now... Now I am just as invested in her well-being as you, her advisors and travelling companions'.   
  
'Close?' Blackwall echoes, eyebrows knitted. 'Do you mean the usual Yavanna-tries-to-make-friends-with-everyone kind of close, or...'  
  
'I would never have expected it myself, but I do have feelings for your Inquisitor that go beyond mere friendship. I did not bed her, however, if that is what you were hinting at,' Alexius says, doing his utmost to regain at least some composure. 'Surely, a man who she has always described as "a regular knight in shining armour" would know better than gossip about a lady's affections behind her back'.  
  
'Fair enough,' Blackwall says, lowering his head; something about Alexius' words seems to have hit a bit of a sore spot. 'There'll be plenty of time to argue over this later. We'd best look around for more... clues that might tell us where that little elf went'.   
  
'Good,' the magister nods curtly. 'When Yavanna is with us again, feel free to judge us both, face to face. For now, all that matters is...'  
  
His voice grows louder, with an almost metallic ring to it.  
  
'I will do anything to make sure she is safe!'  
  
'I was just beginning to suspect you two had grown on each other,' Varric smirks. 'Blueberry does have a knack for bringing out a soft side in people. Even the ones who are supposed to be the bad guys - no offence'.  
  
He shakes his head, chortling to himself.  
  
'Mother Giselle will probably blow her top. Turns out her suspicions about the Inquisitor having a scandalous affair with a Tevinter were right... She just picked the wrong guy to gossip about'.  
  
Cassandra, who has also gotten up and is towering over Varric, makes a loud 'Hmph!'-like noise, and the dwarf hurries to cut his digressions short.  
  
'Anyway... like I said - Blueberry will be fine. No need to do all that wibbly-wobbly time travel stuff again. She will be fine'.  
  
'Maker's balls, I hope you are right!'   
  
At the sound of Blackwall's voice, the dwarf and two humans start and turn their heads simultaneously to look at him. It appears that the Warden's search for clues has yielded results: a blood-splattered satchel (torn off in some kind of a struggle, perhaps?), with a recently picked elfroot plant peeking out of it, its leaves drooping mournfully.  
  
'This is Yavanna's!' Cassandra cries out in alarm, beginning to pace restlessly back and forth. 'Perhaps she was taken somewhere away from here? Against her will?'  
  
Just as startled as the Seeker, Alexius makes a broad, agitated gesture, almost knocking Varric off his feet inadvertently.  
  
'Venatori,' he says through his teeth, an unnerving dark fire lighting up in his eyes.  
  
'We.. They have employed raiders before, to scare off travellers that might disrupt their rituals. This has to have been their doing! The Mark cannot be removed, but they will still welcome the chance to get the Herald of Andraste out of their way. Kaffas, if they touch one hair on her head...'  
  
Varric whistles.  
  
'You know, he'd probably use my intestines to strap his sword with if he caught me comparing him to a magister - but I am getting a real strong déjà vu of Broody right now; of the times when he protected Hawke, that is... Just how much in love with Blueberry are you?'  
  
Alexius glares at him (together with Blackwall, who apparently disapproves just as greatly of having all these conversations when they have a rescue mission to prepare for; whereas Cassandra is mentally invoking the Maker to give her strength not to blush).  
  
'I believe I told you to judge us at a later time, Master Dwarf,' the magister says icily. 'Right now, what I wish to hear is that one of you valuable Inquisition assets has a plan!'  
  
Eager to get down to proper heroic business at long last, Blackwall clears his throat. But, as fate would have it, along comes another interruption.


	4. Chapter 4

It appears out of nowhere - a sleek, well-groomed bay horse with an elaborately embroidered saddle trailing after it, bumping against the ground. Whipping up a cloud of dust with its hooves, the beast darts blindly towards the travellers, its broad nostrils widening in fear. While the rest of the little party scatters out of the approaching horse's way, Blackwall steps forward boldly, blocking the horse's path. In a lightning-fast, assured movement, he catches hold of the reins that are flapping chaotically through the air, and pulls them towards himself. Perhaps sensing the human's calm, confident strength, the beast slows down; this gives Blackwall an opportunity to reach tentatively towards its arching, velvety neck. Just as his fingertips are about to touch the horse's coat, the Warden begins to hum a song. It is evidently intended to be some sort of rendition of one of Maryden's tavern ballads (Once We Were, perhaps?). Both the words and the melody sound rather... off, to say the least; but the deep, soothing sound of Blackwall's voice in itself is enough to gradually subdue the horse: the beast's breathing steadies, and after a few moments, it even lowers its head to nuzzle against the Warden's bushy beard.  
  
'Nice horse-whispering there, Hero! And hey, that was a random encounter if there ever was one!' Varric says. 'I don't suppose this fancy fella belonged to any of these ragged raiders? Or their Tevinter buddies?'  
  
'Heavens no,' Alexius curls his lips, unable to hold back a sarcastic remark even despite his shaken state. 'A dragolisk would be a much more appropriate mount'.  
  
'The saddle work looks Orlesian,' Blackwall says, continuing to pet the horse and at the same time trying to extricate it from the tangled harness. 'I used to have quite a hang of these things when I... before I became a Warden. Of course, it's been years, but...'  
  
Just in time to confirm his observations, a voice calls out somewhere from beyond the veil of dust, with a pronounced Orlesian accent,  
  
'Oh, you found him! You found him! Thank the Maker! And thank you, mes amis!'  
  
A few moments later, the voice's owner also comes into view. It is a man in a white-and-red cloak, bearing the Empire's lion emblem. Despite the desert heat, he is still faithfully adhering to the realm's customs, wearing a full-face scarlet mask that conceals his features and, together with the bold geometric patterns of his attire and his stiff, starched triangular collar, makes him look rather like a face card from a gambling deck.  
  
His delicate, high-heeled boots, adorned with tassel and little red bows at the tips, have obviously not been made for walking through sand; and every now and then, he stumbles awkwardly, his ankles twisting at most bizarre angles. But still, he sticks determinedly to his path, up until the point when he approaches close enough to reach out and touch his lost-and-found mount.  
  
'Ah, Percival, I see you have calmed down!' he says, as he begins to pat the horse's neck together with Blackwall. 'I told you that green light in the sky was nothing to worry about! Oh - '  
  
He falls silent and, clearing his throat, steps away from Percival and bends forward in a deep bow, with one foot placed daintily in front of the other (as daintily as the sand can allow, that is).  
  
'Pardon my manners!' he exclaims, while making a curious, corkscrew-like motion with his hand. 'My name is Frederic of Serault; I am a researcher from the University of Orlais, specializing in draconology, and I have arrived in this desert to gather materials for my groundbreaking monograph on the hunting habits of the Abyssal High Dragon'.   
  
He makes a small pause in this verbose introduction, and then adds, looking up at the four travellers,  
  
'I do not suppose you have seen any other members of my expedition, have you? They have all, sadly, gone missing - along with some supplies I was supposed to receive. I was just going to saddle Percival here to look for them, when this green light flared up over our heads, and the poor animal got frightened and ran away... Thank you, once again, for helping bring us together!'  
  
'Yes, uh... quite,' Blackwall says, a little brusquely; the researcher's manner of speaking does not really help their heroic business come along any further (Alexius seems to be of the same opinion, too, for he glares daggers at the Orlesian with his lips pursed into a hair-thin line).  
  
'Listen, we haven't met any... expeditions,' the Warden goes on. 'But as it happens, we are looking for someone ourselves; a friend of ours. Maybe you have seen her? She is about this tall; elven; blue eyes, dark skin?'  
  
The draconologist shakes his head, clicking his tongue regretfully.  
  
'Alas! It seems that both our quests are yet to yield any fruit,' he sighs.  
  
'Though I am afraid that if your friend is of the, uhm, elven disposition, she might have been captured by Tevinter slavers. There are always quite a few of them in the wilderness, pillaging the region; and lately, the influx of strangers from Tevinter seems to have increased. Thankfully, they do not disrupt my research - but their activities do seem rather... strange. In fact, I would go so far as to say that not all of them are here to collect their living goods, so to speak. All those sinister black cloaks and complex ritual chanting... Ah, but I am getting distracted; you will probably want to focus on the slavers'.  
  
'No,' Cassandra responds, her tone growing urgent. 'No, we are more interested in strangers in black cloaks'.  
  
'I see,' the draconologist says, sounding quite happy to share any information he has (and then some). 'They congregate mainly in Griffon Wing Keep; that's the old Grey Warden fortress not too far from here. This place could well hold the key to your friend's whereabouts; at least it is better than chasing the wind in the desert, like I myself appear to be doing, no? It you have a map, I will trace the route for you'.  
  
'Make it quick!' Alexius demands, watching impatiently as Cassandra and the Orlesian pore over a sketchy chart of the area that the former has pulled from her satchel (even though Lavellan formally heads the adventuring party, being prone to distractions as she is, she always entrusts the map to the Seeker).  
  
'I say,' Frederic remarks, freezing with his finger tracing a path toward Griffon Wing Keep, while his masked face turns towards the magister.  
  
'Aren't you from the Imperium yourself, messere?'  
  
Alexius tilts his head upwards, with a noticeable air of proud defiance.  
  
'What of it? I have no interest to join the hunt for slaves, or any sinister rituals... And I am being truthful this time,' he adds, intoning every word with great emphasis, as his eyes meet Cassandra's.  
  
'Of course, of course!' the researcher hurries to reassure him. 'I was not trying to insinuate anything; I was merely making an observation. You see, messere, your accent betrays you; a couple of years back, I had a Tevinter student that spoke just like you. Alexius, I believe his name was. Something-something Alexius... The full name escapes me; I do remember that we shared a first initial, the letter F. Ferdinand? Falco? Francis? Ah, well...'  
  
Varric, who is still standing next to the 'Time Lord', casts another intent look at his face and leans to the side slightly, offering his shoulder as support - and Alexius promptly grips him with his fingers, his face changing colour once again.  
  
It is happening for a second time (quite annoying, really, since he has other things to attend to). Another vision, sweeping over him, unwelcome, uncontrollable, and just as painful as his flashback of Livia.  
  
He can hazard a guess why these fit-like interferences keep happening: even long before the Breach, the Veil in this wilderness was remarkably thin, which is what drew the interest of so many Tevinter scholars of the most obscure and arcane branches of magic. Back in the old glory days of the Imperium, they would travel here to build their towers and laboratories, which still rise above the sands, as time slowly chips at their walls, bit by bit... And the spirits that once captivated these Tevinter sorcerers so much are still here, still whispering beyond the threadbare pall that separates them from the world of the living, still forming alluring mirages of lush, shady palm trees and deep pools of clear, sparkling turquoise water to fool the tired, thirsty travellers. And still curiously probing mortal minds for hidden memories.   
  
And, of course, for them, this weary old head would be a treasure trove. So many regrets to unearth, so many nightmares from his past, present, and future to act out. Like this image that they are trying to show him right now, while the talkative Orlesian is still out there, worlds away from him, mercilessly maiming his son's name.  
  
This time, in keeping with the draconologist's ramblings, the spirits decide to recreate a corner of Felix's room back home... that is, back at the place that once was their home, before Alexius was disowned by the Imperium, and his son was claimed by the darkness of the Blight. The way the spirits show it, everything in their family mansion has fallen into ruin and disrepair, with spiky tendrils of some ivy-like plant snaking their way through the broken windows, and cobwebs wrapping his boy's writing station in a soft, dense grey shroud.    
  
Felix used to spend many long afternoon hours behind that heavy old wooden desk, poring studiously over the books that his tutors had recommended for him. His magical ability being limited as it was, he could not practice spellcraft with his father; for any other magister, that would have been an unforgivable disgrace, but Alexius was never tired of saying that the world of learning did not begin and end with magic. There were so many other fascinating subjects the boy could pursue, from history to languages to painting - so many uncharted courses into countless colourful new lands. And Alexius encouraged him to journey along them all, under the guidance of the best teachers he could find for him, bringing them in from the furthest corners of Tevinter and beyond - till the boy could know for certain where his true passion lay.  
  
Seeing him, his beloved son, so mesmerized by the books that lay open all around him, so absorbed with untangling the mysterious web of their secrets (and so very like his father in that respect) - ah, those were some of the happiest moments in Alexius' life... And a vision of this very desk, which once served as a starting point of his son's quest for knowledge and now stands abandoned forever, is no less debilitating for him than the sight of his wife's cold, pale corpse. The aura of desolation shrouds it like those thick, grey cobwebs, growing overwhelmingly tangible and seeping deep into Alexius' heart - which makes it excruciatingly hard for him to breathe.  
  
They have done an excellent job, those crafty children of the Fade, leaving him even more fixated on the fear that first began gnawing at him when he saw that charred body of the desert raider.  He lost Livia; he lost Felix - and now, if the Venatori truly are involved here, and if the Inquisition heroes keep dawdling like this, he might lose Yavanna as well. Three times is a charm, is it not?  
  
Not noticing either the Tevinter's pained grimace or the troubled looks that the others exchange, Frederic babbles on, reminiscing about his student.  
  
'He was a bright young man, very diligent; he took my draconology class as an extracurricular course, out of sheer interest towards the subject; well, that is not really surprising, considering the immense cultural significance of dragons in the Imperium... His main area of study was something completely different; mathematics, I believe... He dropped out rather abruptly, though. Just rode off home for the holidays and did not return for the next semester. I never did find out what happened to him'.  
  
'He died,' Alexius says, his voice scrapingly hoarse, and finally lets go of the dwarf.   
  
After unlocking the vice-like grip of poor Varric's shoulder, he instantly lights up a tiny spark of flame between his fingers - which, as Halward Pavus could have attested, does not bode too well for Frederic.  
  
'As will you, if you continue wagging your tongue one minute longer!'  
  
Catching sight of the destructive magic that begins to build up in Alexius' hand, Cassandra is quick to step in between the Tevinter and the Orlesian.  
  
'Do not cross the line,' she warns Alexius. 'We may both care for Yavanna, but you are still under my supervision!'  
  
'So, do we have what we need?' Varric joins in, massaging his shoulder.  
  
Cassandra nods.  
  
'Thank you for marking that map for us, Ser Frederic. Once we are reunited with our friend, I shall personally see to rewarding you for your help!'  
  
The draconologist, who has backed away from Alexius in evident alarm, looks like he is ready to start another monologue - but Blackwall silences by the man before he can even begin (and most likely, prevents a rather nasty incident, since Alexius is very reluctant to put out his fiery orb) by leading his horse up to him and thrusting the reins into his hand.  
  
'Good luck finding those supplies!' he says - as a way of bidding farewell, just before their little adventuring party sets off towards the place pointed out to them by Frederic (the Warden has been chosen to lead this impromptu rescue march, as Cassandra has to keep a close watch on Alexius).  
  
'Do us a favour and stay away from shining green shit, thanks!'  
  
The researcher responds to the Warden's final warning with a nervous little laugh and a small wave of his hand, before gradually disappearing from view behind one of the many twisted rock formations that turn the desert into a dusty, scorched maze.  
  
The travellers walk in silence for a little while, with Blackwall striding ahead, his nose buried in Cassandra's map, and grumbling something about sand getting into the part of his body where it does not belong. The dwarf follows close behind, as best he can, and makes regular pauses to look back at the Seeker, who is marching at the Tevinter mage's side, sword on the ready. She must be telling herself that she is overseeing him, keeping his magic in check - but the frown on her face (according to the famous Cassandra's Expressions Scale, which the Inquisitor and Varric began compiling as a joke some time ago) is far more on the 'concerned' that on the 'wrathful' side of the spectrum. The Seeker is worried, may Andraste lean down from the sky and perform a cheery musical number for her... And not just about Blueberry, but about the old Time Lord too, what with how pale and restless he looks, and how prone to exploding people, if they don't hurry up and give him directions on saving his dear little elf.  
  
Something tells Varric that before long, Cassandra will be swooning over how devoted the old guy seems to be to Yavanna. And somehow, this thought gives him a wistful sort of feeling that he cannot quite shrug off. He may tease her for it, but when Cassandra shows her soft side, he actually... he... Well, shit; his thesaurus doesn't usually fail him like this! Must be that blasted sun; can't seem to tie two thoughts together with it burning a hole in the back of his head.  
  
Varric is brought out of his reverie when his trained dwarven eye instinctively registers something shiny lying by the wayside. Raising his hand to draw the attention of his companions, he bends down and picks the curious object up. It turns out to be one of Lavellan's daggers, with a tiny dragon hugging the blade with its folded wings (She received this dainty little weapon from the Inquisition way back in Haven as far as Varric can remember, the elf almost ended up calling it 'Cutie'... He never would have guessed that he'd meet another Dalish that would remind him of Daisy).    
  
'Shit,' Varric says out loud, holding out the dagger for the others to see. 'Looks like Blueberry really was dragged through here'.  
  
'And not too long ago', Blackwall adds gravely, pointing down at the fresh dark-red splatters in the sand.  
  
The travellers follow the direction of his gesture, an uncomfortable, ominous silence falling over them. And when they finally look up, the air all around suddenly begins to bubble and shimmer, changing colour to dark-green, like some foul potion in a storybook witch's cauldron.  
  
Alexius presses his hand against his mouth, his nostrils widening and his pupils shrinking. After a few moments, his slides his fingers up his face, wiping the sweat off his forehead, and says faintly,  
  
'I am not the only one seeing through the Veil this time, am I?'  
  
Cassandra shakes her head, as do Varric and Blackwall. Tense with anxiety, not uttering a sound, they all watch, unblinking, as the simmering brew slowly clots into black shadows with burning green eyes - similar to the ones that the Inquisition first witnessed at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, reenacting Divine Justinia's murder.  
  
Bursting through where the Veil has worn thinnest, the spirits show what happened here. First, a group of lightly armoured swordsmen and archers (the White Claws, most likely) rushes by, constantly egged on by a heavy-set man with a large bow. Thrust in their midst, is the familiar slender figure that the four companions instantly recognize as the Inquisitor; as she turns her head towards them, looking right past their stunned faces, it becomes apparent (even in this shadowy form) that she has been severely beaten; her face is warped by a layer of scuffs and bruises, and her arms hang limply by her sides, as though broken. And seeing her slow down, the archer adds yet mark to her battered face.  
  
'Move it, knife-ear!' he snarls, his angry exclamation followed by a faint echo. 'We've got a bounty waiting for us at Griffon Wing!'  
  
'So that prattling Orlesian was right, Blackwall remarks in a half-whisper... Only to be shushed by Cassandra, who is watching the vision unfold with baited breath, looking as if she is ready to unsheathe her sword and stab each of the ghostly raiders through the heart for harming the Inquisitor - an expression that is mirrored in Alexius' features as well, though, of course, he would be setting them ablaze rather than stabbing them (and, most likely, he would accompany the said blaze with a loud scream of pain).  
  
'Oi,' another White Claw speaks up in the vision, his voice echoing as well. 'You're in such a hurry you didn't even disarm the elf'.  
  
'Old Hildie broke her arms,' the archer responds, gripping Lavellan above the elbow with such force that he draws out an almost bestial wail out of her. (Here, Alexius cannot keep himself from readying his trusty flame orb again; his extinguishes it instantly, reminding himself that what he is seeing are but shadows of the people that travelled through here - and as the mage fire goes out, it is accompanied by what sounds rather like a dry, shaky sob).  
  
'She won't be fighting back. Although...'  
  
The apparition gropes behind the elf's back, grabbing hold of one of her blades and yanking forcibly at it.   
  
'These little trinkets might be worth something'.  
  
'Please be careful with my daggers,' Lavellan says weakly. 'They both have a story behind them, you know...'  
  
'Shut your trap, you pointy-eared little rat!' the archer bellows. Still holding the sheathed dagger in his grasp, he strikes his captive with it across the face, once, twice, and then more and more and more, till she drops onto the ground, whereupon he continues trampling her down with his boots, getting almost as carried away as Sera did when she dealt with that treacherous noble who killed a Friend of Red Jenny... Only instead of anger at the injustice of 'big pricks pushing down', his face bears the mark of pure hatred and malice.  
  
At this point, Alexius is unable to follow the memory's course any longer. Pushing Cassandra aside, he uses the Fade Step spell to break through the veil of the vision, causing the green-eyed shadows to dissipate like so many puffs of smoke.  After that happens, the magister freezes for a moment, and looks at the others over his shoulder.  
  
'I shall not wait for you,' he says, his countenance now appearing surprisingly calm, cold even. 'You are more than welcome to lag behind and watch as I level that wretched Griffon Wing Keep to the ground'.


	5. Chapter 5

It's not a very prominent thought: it floats somewhere at the very, very back of Lavellan's head, while most of her mind is taken up by handling the shattering pain in her twisted, swollen arms, and the dull throbbing in her side, where that heavy-jawed archer kicked her... which, incidentally, also seems to have had a rather bad effect on her ability to resist the heat.   
  
But it is still there - the very same thought that visits her so often as she is being confronted by all those scores of adversaries that the Inquisition seems to keep accumulating. A simple thought - rather childish one, too, and probably unsuitable for the Inquisitor. An earnest, naive wish to have met all of these gruff, ragged humans, who are now being so nasty to her, under different circumstances.  
  
If her insane time-travelling adventure ever taught her anything, it was that every point in her life, and the lives of people around her, is the result of countless events (accidents? acts of higher powers? who can say...) all leading up to one another. Sort of like overlaying strokes of colour in a work of art: as she discovered while watching Solas paint frescoes in his rotunda,  these strokes do not really make a lot of sense if you look at them up close, but if you take a step back and focus on the bigger picture, you begin to see that it is what it is precisely due to a certain, unique combination of colour splatters; and if the artist moved the brush here and there a little bit differently, the result could have become unrecognizable. She was fortunate enough to get to change some of those paint strokes... Weeell, to be quite honest, it was Dorian who did that, while she simply stood and gaped in horror at the disaster the painting of the world had turned into. Still, living through all of this, and remembering it, was surely an experience she is profoundly grateful for.  
  
Dorian's spell saved countless lives, erased countless blood-red brushstrokes, altered countless layered frescoes for the better. The rebel mages are now safe and sound under the Inquisition's wing, including the sweet Hindel and that bitter young woman, Linnea, who just might stop snapping at all and sundry some day. The victims of the Venatori rituals are going on with their daily lives, not even suspecting that, in another world, they might have become blood sacrifices or test subjects or mindless abominations. Leliana is no longer tainted by the Blight, and that terrifying cold that would have consumed her heart in the dark future can still be fought back, with enough warmth of friendship (which Lavellan is more than ready to smother her in). Cassandra and Varric are free from the snare of red lyrium, and if she, their friendly neighbourhood match-making Inquisitor, can help it, it will not be into the jaws of giant hungry demons that they walk hand in hand next.  And Gereon, her Gereon, who would have suffered so much and betrayed so many, is finally learning to be himself again.  
  
And sometimes, like at this moment, for instance, Lavellan wishes that this life-changing spell could have been repeated... Crazy, yes - but right now, the sweltering, dizzying combination of the heat and the pain is not having the best effect on her sanity.   
  
What if, she asks herself dazedly, as the world around her blurs together in an orange haze, what if that regrettable fight with the demon, and the subsequent squabble over the Venatori bounty, never happened? What if she had gotten an opportunity to get to know these White Claw raiders - what would she have learned? How would they have treated each other then?  
  
That feisty little woman, the one who fell prey to her own greed, and that of her partners in pillaging - Lavellan rather liked her... It takes a lot of courage to be able to face a demon, even as most of your comrades in arms are petrified by sheer dread - and to curse at it, too! Yes, Lavellan definitely liked her - except during that struggle of theirs, when the raider broke her arms. Maybe they could have become friends? After all, Cassandra is one of her very, very best friends, and she started out with her sword at Lavellan's throat, too!   
  
Or that farm boy that tried to stand up for Lavellan - she wonders what his story is. Why did he join the White Claws? Why did he leave behind his trusty old shovel or plough, and hang that pendant over his neck? Perhaps his home was destroyed, by a Rift, or an errant fireball, or an attack by rogue Templars, or a skirmish between Celine and Gaspard's soldiers, or the swift, merciless descent of a hungry dragon - like so many other of those sweet, cozy homes she has seen turn into barren, charred ruins, sometimes with fluttering lace curtains still clinging on to the blind window... And then, with his life upheaved by sudden tragedy, the boy grew desperate, as some of the best and dearest people Lavellan knows grew desperate - and, with nowhere else to turn, decided to become a robber. Maybe, if Lavellan had a chance to talk to this lanky da'len, she could have helped him sort out his life; she could have shown him that, even in these dire times, there are still ways of earning coin other than attacking travellers in the desert. He could have even joined the Inquisition!..  
  
Or this heavily set marksman, the owner of the heavy boot that imprinted itself so painfully into Lavellan's flesh - who is to say why he is in such a hurry to get her to the Venatori? Why he keeps pushing and prodding her, adding to the shooting ache in her limbs and torso, forcing her to drag herself across the sand faster and faster and faster, till she stops feeling her legs and her tongue is prickled by a faint taste of blood, which seems to be bubbling somewhere at the bottom of her overstrained lungs, while her stomach feels as if it has been turned into some sort of morbid fleshy lute, or maybe a weaver's loom, with dozens of terse, throbbing strings stretched till bursting point? Or why he would lose his temper so badly every time when the elf stumbled and fell, and allowed herself a brief intermission by lying down on the ground, where she was not so tall, and her head was not so close to the broiling sky? Why he would scream so loudly about the 'damn rabbit keeping him from getting his hard-earned gold' and so on and so on and on and on, and land countless new blows in the middle of her face, more often than not making the vision in her right eye go almost completely black?  
  
Who is to say why this man is so fixated on getting that bounty that he even killed his fellow raider, just to be able to grab a bigger share for himself? Maybe he needs the Tevinter cultists' gold to help out a loved one? Maybe, deep down, this square-jawed brute, who cannot as much as look at Lavellan without hitting her again and again and again, not to mention calling her a 'dirty knife-ear', is actually a caring, protective husband or brother or son or father? After all, she has seen more than her fair share of humans who hated elves with a passion, but were really gentle and caring towards their kinsfolk. Could this human be just like that too?  
  
Most likely, she will never know the answer to these questions. The Breach has long since been sealed, and according to Gereon, it was only this tremendous disruption in the Veil that made time travel possible in the first place. So all of these thoughts that glide through her mind, as her body is being melted away by the blinding sun rays and the mounting agony in her broken bones, are to remain just that. Idle thoughts. Half-delirious ramblings that make her forget, almost entirely, where she is being lead and why.  
  
She does not begin to gather her wits again until the raiders' little procession reaches a tall wooden gateway in the middle a thick wall, which rises over the sand as far as the elf's bleary, slightly tearful eyes (one of which is now just barely more than a slit between two heavy folds of bruised flesh) can see. In addition to being so massive and formidable, this sturdy bulwark bristles with countless metal spikes at the top, and has narrow, slit-like openings cut through the stone - for archers to rain their arrows on approaching enemies - looking like a row of smug, squinting eyes. A guardsman, wearing a fittingly light set of armour, just right for the desert heat (a single pauldron slapped over his bare shoulder and a helmet with a grid-like visor) leans out of one of the fortress's  embrasures and cries out something very unfriendly in Tevene; but the heavy-jawed archer steps forward and, pulling at the fraying string tied to  his white claw pendant, raises it over his head with one hand, while squeezing Lavellan's poor sore shoulder with the other.  
  
'Hold your fire, snake boy!' he calls out.  'We're on your side! And we've brought something your leader Mackerel will like very, very much!'  
  
With that, he lets go of his pendant and wrings Lavellan's limp left arm forward. The sudden motion results in a new, shattering burst of pain; as the elf cries out, her wheezing breath punctuated by a sob, the tiny sliver of the Fade in her palm flickers for a moment. For the guardsman, this little demonstration is more than sufficient proof of the raiders' credibility; turning around, he waves his hand emphatically to someone beyond the wall, and the gate swings open.  
  
After that, Lavellan vaguely registers being paraded up several flights of stone steps, until she reaches a platform at the very top of the fort, looking over a shimmering sea of burning sand. High over her head, the scorching wind plays with at least two large banners, of the kind she has seen more than a few times before, both at the Venatori encampments that she cleared together with Dorian and Bull, and in the main hall of the castle in Redcliffe, back when... when Gereon was still in a dark place. Each banner features the symbol that everyone in the south instantly recognizes as a sign of the Imperium (more often than not, with a fearful shudder) - a black snake, coiling against a white background. As the cloth flaps in the wind, the two serpents overhead appear to move, rearing their heads into the air, hissing greedily, ready to sink their venomous fangs into the little elf that stands before them, rendered almost completely helpless by pain and exhaustion, and sways slightly, as though mesmerized by their cold hypnotic gaze. Like... yes, like a literal rabbit. That archer must find it so, so funny.  
  
'Inquisitor...'  
  
The sound of this voice, languid and imperious at the same time, and most definitely not belonging to any of the White Claw raiders, makes Lavellan lift her heavy, swimming head, and blink the sweat and tears out of her eyes. Standing before her, is a man, in the familiar flowing black robes with a broad triangular hood - similar to the ones that were worn by the Venatori pyromancers that sank that Qunari dreadnought on the day when Bull became Tal-Vashoth. This mysterious garb was quite suited for the rainy weather of the Storm Coast - but here and now, this poor Venatori (Mackerel, she thinks they called him? A bit of a silly name...) must be absolutely drowning in his own sweat... Dripping away into a puddle like that fancy Orlesian ice cream left out in the open... Drip, drip, drip...  
  
Lavellan's thoughts begin to wander again, but a powerful charge of bright-purple lightning magic, which the Venatori shoots at her without warning, makes her wake up.   
  
'Quite a lofty title for someone belonging to a lesser race,' the man goes on, seeing that he has gotten the elf's attention. 'And I see you are not so formidable without a dozen of heavily armed cronies. Most unwise, for a little elven girl to stay on her own when she is meddling in the affairs of a god...'  
  
He pauses, tapping his chin thoughtfully with his gloved hand, and then laughs at his own thoughts. Though not quite the 'stupid-cruel-like' kind if laugh that, according to the conversation between Dorian and Sera, magisters become entitled to making when they get a special license, the laugh is still very unsettling. Even the raiders seem to sense that, as they exchange nervous whispers behind Lavellan's (oh so terribly aching) back.  
  
'I suppose I will need to send for my superiors,' Mackerel says, after he has had his laugh, flexing his fingers around a second purple spell wisp, 'Let them know what a prize has arrived in my keep; but first, I would like to show you your place... Take you down a peg or two, as the southerners would say. We serve our master faithfully, in life and in death - and you shall serve him too, by being punished for rising above the gutter where you belong, and stealing the glory that was to have been the Elder One's'.  
  
The raiders took away one of Lavellan's daggers, and amidst all the pushing and kicking and being dragged through the desert, she has completely lost track of its twin: maybe it is still lying somewhere out there, on the battlefield; maybe she dropped it along the way, say during that struggle; or maybe one of the raiders pilfered it as well, while the heavy-jawed archer was busy landing punches into the parts of her body that hadn't yet been turned into a throbbing jelly. Either way, she now cannot pull off the classic heroic trick and lunge at the Venatori with her weapons while he is reciting his taunting monologue. She could try and use the Mark to push him off the parapet or something - but she is barely able to lift her arm, much less focus the power of the Fade. And to cap it all, she is too overwhelmed by a torrent of new, rather unsettling thoughts.  
  
It occurs to her that, as they face each other on this stone platform, underneath the soaring banners, this looks terribly like one of the Inquisition's trials, only with places switched. Now it is her turn to stand weak and helpless, with guards of all shapes and sizes breathing down her neck, while a gloating Venatori decides what is to be done with her. Dear gods, if that is how she made Gereon feel, she absolutely must apologize to him... And to her current prisoners too!.. If she makes it out of this.   
  
Meeting no resistance from his 'prize', Mackerel jeers malevolently. Lavellan can see just enough of his lower face underneath his hood to see how his lips part, exposing the tips of his teeth. He looks like he is ready for another evil laugh - but first, he casts a new spell. This time, instead of conjuring up a lightning bolt, he makes half-transparent spikes shoot out of the stone, encircling Lavellan in a ghostly cage. And like most cages constructed by any self-respecting torture master, this one does not merely hold the captive back: the Venatori's creation has sizzling charges of magic coursing from its bars to the trapped prisoner, stinging her at regular intervals and adding up new, piercing pangs of pain to the hot pulse in her bruised limbs.  
  
One of the Venatori onlookers clears his throat and says something cautiously in what sounds like Tevene, addressing Lavellan's torturer as 'Macrinus' (this must be where the 'Mackerel' nickname came from).  
  
'Yes-yes,' the hooded mage dismisses him casually, speaking in the common tongue. 'I said I would send word in due time. Go pay these southerners for their efforts - while I shall... condition the Inquisitor for being presented to our master. I am certain that the results I achieve will please him greatly'.


	6. Chapter 6

'Whoah, whoah, magister! Just - just where do you think you're going?! You are not running ahead! We need to stick together!'  
  
'Yes, stick together - like a handful of slugs! If you are so keen on helping, you should have asked that researcher for his horse! That would've made reaching the keep much faster!'  
  
'And how do you suppose we'd all fit into that fancy little saddle? All four of us? Or did you plan to use blood magic to make the horse grow in size?'  
  
'Oh please, don't be absurd! One of you warriors could have followed me on horseback, while I...'  
  
'...Got yourself killed the instant you knocked on the keep's door! Didn't you hear: that place is manned with what must be dozens of Venatori! What is it with you mages running around taunting enemies?! I swear, you are just like that Dorian of yours: one moment, he is twirling his staff, shooting lightning left and right; and the next, he is lying face down in the dirt, and Bull or I have to pick him up!'  
  
'I was a high-ranking member of the Magisterium! I shall not need to be picked up by some so-called knight who parades around while people keep dying of the Blight!'  
  
This argument, more and more heated with each word, was taking place while Blackwall and Alexius were darting across the sand in a swift, bizarre, almost comical dance: the mage has been stubbornly moving forward with his teleportation spell, whereas the warrior has been trying to intercept him.  
  
Alexius blurted out that last phrase without thinking it through, his voice quivering with the same kind of uncontrollable, helpless anger that racked his chest when, locked in irons and crushed by the thought of his son's inevitable death, he lashed out at the victorious Herald of Andraste in Haven. Realizing what he has just said, he slows down, lowers his eyes, and mutters,  
  
'Disregard that, Warden. I... I must still be affected by that scholar's blathering'.  
  
Blackwall frowns.  
  
'The Blight... Is that what your son died of?'  
  
The former magister nods; then, he looks up, a sudden spark of suspicion lighting up in his eyes.  
  
'Couldn't you tell when you met him in Redcliffe?'  
  
The Warden stiffens; again, Alexius seems to have hit a nerve.  
  
'Most of us are soldiers, not healers!' he exclaims defensively. 'You don't have to know a whole lot about darkspawn or the Blight in order to fight both these evils!'  
  
'Good thing the Orlesian Grey Wardens were nowhere to be found when I tried to consult them, then,' the mage sneers. 'They would have just wasted my time. Just like all of you are now. Continuously'.  
  
Blackwall draws himself up to his full height, his beard appearing to bristle indignantly. However, what promises to become another round of snapping and snarling (possibly ending with one man's hands closing around the other's throat) is promptly cut short by Varric and Cassandra.  
  
'Andraste's tits, here I am pulling Wardens and Tevinters apart again; just like back home in Kirkwall,' the dwarf grouses. 'I don't know if you two roosters noticed, but we're almost there!'  
  
Following the direction in which he is pointing, Blackwall and Alexius see that, during their argument, they moved beyond the shelter of the orange rocks, and are now standing at the very mouth of a broad torrent of sand, which spills and heaves endlessly across a vast flatland, all the way towards the horizon. Like a solitary island amid these dusty waves, there rises a monumental stone fortress, with a row of metal spikes shielding its walls and glinting brightly in the sun.  
  
'Griffon Wing Keep,' Cassandra declares somberly. 'Yavanna shall not be held captive for long now'.  
  
Taking a few steps forward, Alexius steeples his forefingers together, tapping against his lower lip in deep concentration.  
  
'If I were to take advantage of the deteriorated Veil here,' he muses, attempting to measure the distance to the fortress with his gaze. (For Felix, it would have been two seconds' work... No; no - he must not let himself become... affected again).  
  
'I could succeed in opening a Rift right at the keep's gateway... The destructive blast alone would - '  
  
'You shall do no such thing!' Cassandra cries out vehemently. 'If you want to save the woman you... care about, you are doing it the Inquisition way!'  
  
'And what would the Inquisition way be?' Alexius snaps over his shoulder, as the little rescue party continues moving across the plain towards the fort. 'Sneaking in up a secret tunnel and slitting everyone's throats?'  
  
'That's actually a pretty good idea, Time Lord!' Varric remarks. 'Say, Hero...' he prods Blackwall in the elbow. 'What do you think? You Wardens are a shifty, secretive bunch; there're bound to be some hidden passages out there, right?'  
  
Blackwall grunts something indefinite; then, suddenly spotting two dark-cloaked figures moving among the orange dunes, not too far off, he hurries to gesture towards them and to suggest,  
  
'Why don't we probe them for answers?'    
  
Just at this moment, the cloaked strangers (Venatori; there can hardly be any doubt about that) seem to take notice of the four travellers' presence as well. Exchanging a couple of loud exclamations in Tevene, they flip open the bulky tomes they have been carrying under their arm. As the books hover at the cloaked strangers' fingertips, supported in mid-air by their magic, their pages seem to light up with a cold, blue glow, and the scorched sand that separates the spell-weavers from their adversaries gradually disappears beneath a layer of curious, web-like symbols, which crisscross and overlay, forming a shimmering pattern, like the ones that adorn a window pane on a southern winter's night.  
  
The two warriors, Cassandra and Blackwall, know all too well what these frost runes entail: if they were to charge forward right now, they'd be knocked off their feet by a staggering icy blast, the moment the soles of their boots touched the rimy webs. Thus, instead of moving within melee range, Blackwall carefully uncoils the chain of a small grappling hook that he carries attached to his belt, and then hurls it forward. There is a sharp ripping sound as the metal hook catches against the broad sleeve of the shorter, chubbier spell-weaver, moments before he would have cast another ice spell, which he was busy preparing.  
  
The pages of the floating spell tome grow blank, and it thuds down into the dust, no longer sustained by the mage. In the meanwhile, bending his legs slightly in the knee and leaning backwards, as though he was struggling to win in a game of tug of war, Blackwall pulls his 'catch of the day' towards himself, across the spell-weaver's own frost runes - which, of course, do not fail to erupt in his face.  
  
Wheezing hoarsely, the man lands at the warrior's feet, tiny tendrils of cold magic trailing along his arms and torso and sinking crystal-like thorns into his flesh. His hood has slipped off, revealing a round, pinkish face, with a small dimple on his chin and peach-like fuzz over his lips and the sides of his cheeks. His eyes are shut and overcast with dark-blue shadow, but even so, his features should prove fairly recognizable to someone who knows him... And so it does.  
  
Taking a closer look at the Venatori spell-weaver's features, Alexius starts, in evident surprise, and reaches down towards him, drawing Blackwall aside with one hand.  
  
'I knew the voice sounded familiar...' he says. 'Warden, if you please: this is the one we ought to... probe'.  
  
'You think he'll tell us all we need to know, just like that?' Blackwall asks, not too convinced.  
  
'I know this boy,' Alexius insists. 'He was one of... one of my late wife's apprentices. Getting information out of the likes of him was what I once did almost every day'.  
  
During this little exchange, having noticed that Alexius has gotten distracted, the second mage decided to try tossing a fire ball at him. The spell is completely charged up by the time the former magister says these last words; but before the Venatori can actually cast it, he is hindered by Varric... Or rather, as the dwarf himself would point out, by Bianca the crossbow. Making a soft mechanic click, the bolt whizzes through the air and pierces the mage's shoulder, making him sway and let out a shrill yelp of pain. Still, he finds it in himself to retain his grip on the flaming orb that he has conjured up, which he now aims at the dwarf, while pressing down at his wound with his free hand (his spell tome, just like his fellow cultist's, has sunk into a little mound of sand at his feet, as he is no longer strong enough to keep up both the orb and the levitation spell).  
  
The charge of magical flames would have done an admirable job for certain, even despite his adversary being a dwarf. The spell-weaver has enough fire at his fingertips to reduce Varric's magnificent chest hair to a handful of smoldering ashes. There is, however, one thing he has not accounted for: by now, the frost runes have already worn off, which gives Cassandra an opportunity to rush towards the remaining spell-weaver and topple him down to the ground with a shield bash.  
  
After the man falls, blood dripping down on the sand underneath his wriggling body, he makes one last, feeble attempt to fight back with the use of his spellcraft. His fingers still encircled with ring-like flame tongues, he grasps at Cassandra's shin. Scathed by the sudden slash of mage fire, which seeps through her protective leathers, the Seeker stumbles for a moment, but still succeeds in striking the spell-weaver down with her sword. After the blade makes that unmistakable wet squelch, Alexius (who has turned his head to watch Cassandra) looks down mournfully to pay his respects to the slain Venatori - and then directs his attention back to the chubby spell-weaver, who is slumped listlessly on his knees at Blackwall's feet, still frozen into unconsciousness (Varric's gaze, in the meanwhile, continues to linger on the Seeker, oddly devoid of mockery... but that is a tale for another time).  
  
'Lucian,' Alexius calls to the young man in the common tongue, clearing off the frost spell's tendrils with the tingling wave of his healing magic.  
  
'Lucian, can you hear me?'  
  
The young mage's eyelids flutter; he moves his head slowly from side to side and mumbles groggily,  
  
'Please... Tell Mistress Livia will hand in my homework tomorrow... I promise'.  
  
Alexius sighs, making a point of showing his exasperation (but still failing to fully conceal the sadness that his gaze takes on at the mention of a 'Mistress Livia').  
  
'Kindly stop mumbling that nonsense, boy. You are not in Tevinter any longer'.  
  
The spell-weaver starts and tears open his eyes, which turn out to be round and bluish-grey, making his countenance seem rather child-like. The rest of the travellers, who have, by now, all gathered around Alexius to see how the 'probing' is coming along, cast an incredulous glance at one another. These are certainly not the sort of eyes they would have expected to look at them from underneath a Venatori's hood.  
  
'M-m-master Alexius!' Lucian stammers, gaping at the older Tevinter. 'I - I thought you were dead!'  
  
'So did I,' Alexius responds earnestly.  
  
'Where... Where is Andronicus?.. My companion?' the young man continues, trying to look dazedly around him.  
  
'He... I am afraid he is gone, puerus,' Alexius says, visibly tense and uncomfortable. 'We had to...'  
  
'I... I see,' the spell-weaver interrupts the older man's fumbling attempt at comforting him: the news of his fellow Venatori's demise seems to have relieved him more than anything.  
  
'He... He scared me too much,' he declares, his voice quivering. 'Much too much'.  
  
Cassandra is ready to cut into their conversation with an urgent question about the hidden tunnels leading to Griffon Wing Keep - but at this moment Lucian, quite unexpectedly, grips at the front of Alexius' robe and bursts into a bubbling, hiccuping sobbing fit.  
  
'I... I d-don't want to do this any longer!' he whimpers, his voice rising and falling intermittently. 'I... I thought the V-Ven... Ven.. atori were making a difference! M-making things better for us... for our hhhhhh... home!'  
  
The last word turns into a hissing wheeze, and it takes a few moments before Lucian can speak again.  
  
'Everyone knows...' he says, after a tremendous sniff, 'Everyone knows Tevinter is dying. We... We cower in the shadows of our ancestors, among crumbling, leaky old ruins, while... while the Magisterium grows more and more corrupt, and the Q-Q-Qunari are this close to our doorstep... They p-promised to change that... the Venatori... They said... They said...'  
  
He sniffs for a second time, slowly gaining some measure of control over his voice.  
  
'They said t-t-trust in the Elder One... They said he will u-u-usher in a new future... A future where our home is p-prosperous once again... An empire reaching from sea to sea, where mages rule in p-perfect harmony and peace... And serve a god that actually answers when you p-pray to him...'  
  
He leans heavily against Alexius and succumbs to sobbing again.  
  
'It... It... It all seemed so beautiful... I was... so... so eager to be p-part... part of that legend, coming to life... Oh, I... I should have listened to Mother... She warned me these Ve-Venatori were too good to be true... But I thought I knew better... I ran away from home... And now...'  
  
His voice turns into a wail.  
  
'The miiiiiiine! I have seen the mine! The Red Templars, the Elder One's honour guard - they grow those... whispering crystals... out of people! It's so... so si-hic!'  
  
He makes a half-hiccupping, half-retching noise, and, seeming to forget himself completely, comes dangerously near to wiping his blotchy, running nose against Alexius' sleeve. Fortunately, the magister manages to move away in time, curling his lips; a moment later, however, he leans closer to Lucian again, as his pity towards the young spell-weaver proves stronger than his distaste.  
  
'...It's sickening to watch them...' Lucian continues, swallowing a large lump in his throat. 'Diss... dissolving... Melting... Turning into... these... red spikes... The Templars say that it is all part of some... great plan... That the... the unworthy... the lesser men... must give their lives... so that Tevinter.... may rise again... But if our future is to be built on corpses, I don't want to be part of it! I just... I just don't! And besides...' he concludes in a tremulous whisper, 'Who decides who's... lesser and who isn't?.. May I will be... a lesser man next!'  
  
After they hear out his account of the Venatori's 'mining operation', Cassandra and Blackwall knit their eyebrows grimly, as their initial suspicions, back from when Alexius deciphered the message intercepted by Harding, are confirmed. It is more than obvious that, should the Inquisition find those Templars, heads are going to roll.  
  
Varric, on the other hand, hangs his head on his (recently rescued) hairy chest and mouths, 'Shit, poor kid...' - while Alexius does what he learned from the best. He draws the trembling captive close and embraces him.  
  
'You are right, Lucian,' he says quietly. 'Tevinter is dying. We are sinking deeper and deeper into the mire of decay, with no easy way to tear ourselves out and stand firm again... The Venatori promised to change that; they promised a clear, straightforward way out - and there is nothing more tempting than a way out when you are so very tired of searching for it on your own... And then it all turns out to be a trap'.  
  
'You... You understand!' Lucian breathes out, arching his eyebrows and blinking rapidly. 'D-don't you, Master Alexius? I... I rather expected you not to, from what they told me about you... B-but you do! You understand!'  
  
Alexius nods.  
  
'Go home, Lucian,' he says, while getting to his feet and helping the younger man do the same. 'Go back to Tevinter. If you are in need of help, seek out Maevaris Tilani; Dorian tells me she has become a bit of a beacon for lost young men like you... But most importantly, put your mother's mind at ease. There is no worse torture than being separated from your child and not knowing what became of them.'  
  
Lucian looks at the older man intently, and then lets out a squeaky 'Oh'. Alexius, in turn, forces a thin, thread-like sort of smile, and repeats,  
  
'Go home, puerus. Go home'.  
  
'Wait!' Cassandra interjects in protest. 'Who gave you authority to release our captive?'  
  
'Give him a break, Seeker,' Varric says, as persuasively as he can. 'This Lucian fellow is just a scared little kid who bought into a load of bullshit and now wants to bail out! In the Gallows barracks, you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting a Templar recruit just like him!'  
  
It is only when the dwarf speaks up in his defense that Lucian finally registers his presence, along with that of Cassandra and Blackwall.  
  
'You... You are still here...' he mumbles. 'The... intruders Andronicus told me to destroy... I... I am confused... Why aren'you... more hostile?'  
  
'They are with me,' Alexius reassures him. 'You and your companion intercepted us as we were about to make our way into Griffon Wing Keep. A... dear friend of ours is being held hostage there'.  
  
Lucian gulps.  
  
'Oh no! You've got to get over there! Before - before they pick a use for your friend's corpse! There is an underground passage close by, leading straight into the cave with the spring that we draw our water from; it is sealed with a barrier spell, but I am certain a master mage like yourself can break through that!'  
  
'Indeed I can,' Alexius says, some of the trademark Tevinter arrogance returning to his voice. 'Not quite as effective as tearing down the gates with a Rift, but it will do'.  
  
'Good luck,' Lucian says earnestly. 'And thank you!'  
  
As he finishes vigorously shaking the magister's hand, Varric comes up to him and, taking out the small leather-bound book that he carries with him for travel notes, tears out a sheet and scribbles something hastily.  
  
'Hey kid: I understand that Time Lord here was acting all noble and stuff, but quitting an order like the Venatori can't be easy. You are definitely gonna need protection, and not just from my lovely cousin, who is too far away right now. Follow these directions to the Inquisition outpost, and say these words I wrote down for you to scout Lace Harding - so she knows you actually met me and can be trusted. Her last meeting with a Venatori messenger... did not go too well'.  
  
Lucian stares down at the paper, even more flabbergasted than before.  
  
'Copper marigolds?' he reads out loud. 'What is that supposed to mean?'  
  
'Long story,' Varric says. 'The most important thing is: Harding will understand. For extra credibility, you can also ask her if she's ever been to Kirkwall's Hightown'.  
  
'Ugh, not that again,' Cassandra mutters, with a disgusted noise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Fiona was a (real) Warden once, but what with all that time travel and indenture to Tevinter business, she and Alexius hardly could have had an opportunity to get on friendly enough terms to discuss either her past, or his son's illness - at least in this story's universe.
> 
> Also, the story seems to progress slower than I anticipated because I got carried away by trying to humanize a random Venatori.


	7. Chapter 7

Once, when she was about ten years old, young Yavanna of clan Lavellan dragged a few of the other da'len to the outskirts of the small hamlet that nestled at the foot of the hill where the grown-ups had made camp. The idea was to seek out some human children and learn what sort of games they played, and offer to teach them some of the elven games in return. Having just read one of her first books set in the supposedly dark and forbidden human world, little Yavanna was immensely enthused by the astounding discovery that humans were not born with torches and pitchforks in their hands, and that human children actually played games, too, just like the children of the People - and she refused to rest until she got both the little shemlen and her clan mates to join in a shared afternoon of fun.  
  
So, the first chance she got while the elders were busy anchoring the landships and gathering firewood and scouting the nearby hunting paths, off she trotted, at the head of a motley procession of barefoot elven youngsters, down and down the grassy slope, over the rickety stile and past a row of haystacks, till she and her friends found themselves in a small clearing, in the shade of a giant, gnarled willow tree, where the village children gathered to pass the time before it got dark and their parents called them home for dinner.  
  
Things went quite well at first. When they saw them approach, the human children froze up, gaping - but Yavanna managed to dispel the awkward silence (broken only by a few cautious whispers like 'Hey, it's them wild elves from up the hill' or 'They don't look so wild to me' or 'Maybe they are normal elves - they don't have the twiggy things on their faces'). Approaching who she deemed to be the prettiest girl among the young shemlen (a chubby little thing with ruddy cheeks and a frizzy dark braid encircling her head), and thrust a rather lopsided little dandelion wreath, which she had woven especially for the occasion, right on top of her scalp, declaring,   
  
'This is for you, lethallan. You are very beautiful'.   
  
The chubby girl flushed even redder, while the rest of the children giggled... And before they knew it, they were all talking and laughing and racing after each other and trying to climb the old willow, elves and humans side by side.   
  
But then, their little gathering was unexpectedly ruined, when one of the elven children, a frail, big-headed boy of no more than five or six, snuck behind the tree, pulling down his patched green leggings, in a hurry to answer the call of nature. A burly human lad, who was already big enough to start sporting his first hint at a moustache, noticed that, and declared, his voice loud and thick with laughter,  
  
'My da says that homeless elves drink their own pee cuz they don't got no wells!'  
  
Every da'len started at those words, some blushing, some clenching their fists in anger, some beginning to cry. Yavanna was ready to make everyone calm down (as soon as she helped the poor little six-year-old, who got all tangled up in his own clothes in embarrassment) - but before she could do that, another big human boy decided to continue that crude joke of theirs.  
  
'Nah, they drink the pee of those weird white cows they have!' he said, chortling.  
  
And that was when the quiet little clearing erupted into chaos. Blows rained left and right; the generally smaller, more agile elves tried to trip up the humans or kick them in the shins, while the aggravated shemlen pulled at their hair and almost knocked out their teeth; in the commotion, someone even tore off the chubby girl's wreath and slapped her across the face with it, making her start bawling her head off. Finally, chased off by the humans, the little elves had no choice but to trudge back uphill, many of them bearing dark bruises around their eyes and dripping red gashes across their cheeks and lips.   
  
The inglorious return of the younglings stunned and outraged all the grown-ups in the clan, of course. But none of them was more livid, none of them screamed louder, or shook more feverishly, or choked more violently on her own spit, than Yavanna's Mamae. She has never blamed her for that - now that she is older, and hopefully wiser, as Blackwall likes to say, Yavanna can see clearly what an ordeal it must have been for Mamae to have a daughter like her.  
  
She never wanted a child in the first place (as she never hesitated to remind Yavanna). But maybe if she got someone more... normal, she'd have changed her mind about motherhood. As it was, however, she had to contend yourself with a blue-eyed little squirt who made things so very difficult for her. Always getting into trouble, always asking those bothersome questions, always bringing shame to her clan with her attempts to befriend every shem and flat-ear she came across... And finally, allowing her playmates to get beaten up!   
  
For Mamae, that particular misadventure was especially unforgivable. After she was done yelling and shaking and spitting, she grabbed her hapless offspring by the wrist and, almost dislodging the girl's shoulder, dragged her to the clan's makeshift crafting station, where she had been working on a new bow for the upcoming hunt in these new forests. The bow string, which Mamae had not yet attached to her weapon, served as an excellent whip; even fifteen years later, Yavanna still has some faint, barely protruding ridges running across her spine, marking the spots where her skin ruptured and bled, as a stinging whirlwind danced its unstoppable dance over her back, taking deeper and deeper bites of her flesh every time it touched down, with a sharp snapping noise (first, the lashes served as punishment for being  such a nuisance and disgrace; and then, more got added to discipline her, for she would not stop whimpering, and this annoyed Mamae greatly).  
  
Even though she understands why Mamae thought the whipping necessary, and would never hold it against her, Yavanna has to admit that not once in her life has she been in so much pain - either before, or since. Until now, that is.  
  
The magic contained within Macrinus' conjured cage lashes at her like Mamae's bow string, burning through her light rogue's armour and scorching her skin. The sizzling charges of magic split into what feels like countless tiny but very sharp razor blades, which push their way forcibly through her pores and slice up her veins, till she imagines herself drowning in her own blood. Combined with the ceaseless ache in her broken bones, the agony caused by this elaborate magical torture proves almost too much to bear. It mounts within Yavanna's every sinew, in a frothing, bubbling wave of liquid flame (of the kind the rage demon was moulded from) - and then, suddenly, just as it reaches its peak, the wave freezes, like the demon froze when hit with a blast of enchanted ice.  
  
The world grows dark; Yavanna can no longer see either the shimmering bars of her ghostly prison, or Macrinus' malicious leer, which has never left his face as he has been watching her writhe in pain.  All her surroundings rapidly draw away from her, kind of like the blankets that Cassandra sometimes tears unceremoniously off her at camp if Yavanna's night watch comes next and she has dozed off at the fire...  
  
And then, completely without warning, Yavanna finds herself back in that old cell in Haven.  
  
Solas took her there when he was teaching her to gain at least some control over her Mark - or rather, she took them there, without even realizing it, literally in her sleep, by using the fragment of the Fade in her hand to shape the dreamworld around her and create a joined space in her and Solas' mind, where they could walk and talk and just watch the large, fluffy snowflakes slowly build up into cozy blankets on the rooftops of the village buildings (still miraculously intact in this incredibly vivid, life-like vision).  
  
'Haven is important to you,' Solas said, as she wondered why they had wound up there of all places. 'It always will be'.  
  
And he was right - and not just for the reasons he thought obvious. Yes, Haven is important to Yavanna - because this is where it all began.  
  
This is where she met her very first friends in the Inquisition (though at first, Cassandra for one was not exactly friendly... And neither was Chancellor Roderick, who Yavanna also considered to be her friend, even though he was so bent on disliking her till the very last).  
  
And this is where she made her promise to help Gereon. In a small, dank cell, barely lit by smoking torches - where her own journey had started.  
  
This is where she embraced him for the very first time - if you did not count the dark, Veilless, lyrium-tainted future, where he bled to death in her arms, while Dorian looked on, speechless with shock and pain, and her faithful companions braced themselves for their terrible sacrifice.  
  
This is where he looked up at her, his sworn enemy, his triumphant captor, and something stirred in his tired eyes that was neither bitterness nor desperation.  
  
This is where she realized that, despite everything, that peculiar fluttering feeling in her stomach, which had first overcome her when he gave her that evil mastermind smirk in Redcliffe, was still far from fading away.  
  
And perhaps this is where she started truly falling in love with him.   
  
That is the reason why Haven, and this corner of its dungeons in particular, holds such special meaning for her. And why she finds herself returning here so often when she enters the Fade and tries to control her dreams her Mark. It may seem rather bizarre, maybe even unnatural for her, as she is usually far from feeling at home in closed spaces - but it is true: this prison cell has become her safe place, and it is here that she has travelled when the pain severed her mind from her body, leaving her empty husk behind to thrash in the clutches of Macrinus' magic.  
  
As she looks around and recognizes the good old damp, glistening stone walls and the rows of bars on the dungeon doors and windows, Yavanna draws a small sigh of relief and nestles on the floor, with her legs crossed, preparing for whatever dream the Fade has in store for her. She does not have to wait long: soon after Macrinus' predatory grin and the hazy outlines of the fortress give way to the vision of the dungeon, Yavanna is joined by what looks like a tall, slender woman in long, flowing robes with bizarre crescent-shaped constructs on the shoulders (kind of like the designs Dorian sketches for her when she asked him about Tevinter fashion).  
  
The woman's figure is dim and wraith-like at first. And frankly, if it remained looking like that, Yavanna would have probably started feeling frightened (after all, aside from her Mark, she is far from being a mage, and a confrontation with an unknown spirit, without Solas there to pacify it, would not have ended in her favour). But as the ghostly stranger crosses the dungeon floor, appearing to glide rather than walk, her form quickly grows more solid; soon enough, Yavanna is able to discern not just the general outline of the woman's robe, but all the little straps and buckles that adorn it, and even the elaborate geometrical patterns that run along her sleeves and across her midriff (and are slightly dizzying to look at). She can see the woman's face, too: her tall forehead, framed by locks of greying auburn hair, and the slight curve of her nose bridge, and her softly smiling lips, which, along with the defined contour of her chin, vaguely remind Yavanna of someone she met on her travels... She can't quite put her finger on it, though. Maybe she caught a glimpse of that woman in a crowd somewhere (in the market of Val Royeaux, or maybe at Vivienne's salon, judging by those fancy robes) and the spirits just randomly fished the memory out of her mind... Yes, but if the woman was Orlesian, she'd be wearing a mask, right? But then again, the Fade is so weird...  
  
The stranger interrupts Yavanna's guesswork by leaning down to shake her hand, and by saying, with dimples appearing on her cheeks as she smiles a little broader,  
  
'Hello sweetie'.  
  
'Hi...' the elf responds tentatively, giving the woman an even closer look. There is definitely something awfully familiar about that smile of hers... For some reason, it makes Yavanna think of... church pews? But this elegant lady could hardly be part of the human Chantry - right?  
  
'Do... Do I know you?' she asks, tilting her head back.  
  
'Not really,' the stranger responds, as she spreads out her robes and sits down on the floor new to the elf. 'But you've been thinking about me a lot lately'  
  
'I have?' Yavanna echoes, with a rapid series of confused blinks.  
  
'Oh yes,' the woman glances at her over her shoulder, a net of gossamer-like lines spreading round her eyes as she smirks slyly. 'You poor sweetheart have been at your wits' end, asking yourself all these questions... "I told him his wife would want him to be happy, but did I really have a right to say that? Who am I to decide what she would want? Maybe what I am doing, what we are doing, is wrong, and she is out there in the Beyond, jealous and angry, hating me?"  
  
Yavanna slaps herself on the forehead and inhales shakily. Now she understands why she remembered those church pews! They were not just any pews - they were the pews in the Redcliffe Chantry, the front row still bearing the scorch marks from a sudden violent disruption of the Veil, and the chipped, jagged scratches left by demon claws. And among those pews, stood a pale young man, with a nose, forehead and jaw line that were almost exactly the same as this woman's; and with absolutely, positively the same lips, which parted in the same smile, as he listened wistfully to his friend telling him not to get himself killed.  
  
 _There are worse things than dying, Dorian._  
  
But of course! That's where she saw the woman before! Or rather, part of her - preserved within the features of her son. Felix's features.  
  
'You... You are her...' Yavanna says slowly, gazing at the woman with baited breath. 'You are Livia!'  
  
'Well, not exactly,' the woman corrects her, beginning to sound rather like a scholar giving a lecture. 'I died a few years ago; even assuming that the souls of the departed pass through the Fade - which no-one has been able to scientifically prove yet - do you think I'd hang around for this long? Hmmm, actually, maybe I would: what lies beyond the Veil has always fascinated me, and this would be an excellent opportunity to study it first-hand, as it were. And I could try to take peeks into the waking world to see how my two darlings were doing... Or probably not: Felix and Gereon had suffered far too much without me driving them insane by haunting them! So, for all we know, maybe I... maybe Livia did pass on... And that, of course, would make me just a spirit clinging on to memories of Livia and doing a rather convincing impersonation... So convincing, in fact, that it itself is starting to believe that it is Livia; that I am Livia. Nothing is solid here, you know; nothing is definite. There are no answers in the Fade; just an endless array of new questions'.  
  
'Yeah, I know...' Yavanna nods, having followed the woman's slightly jumbled explanation very attentively. 'I am friends with a spirit, and he is often just as confused about who he really is'.  
  
'Well, that's settled then,' the woman says brightly. 'For all intents and purposes, you can call me Livia: this is the closest you will ever get to talking to her... to me. And you have been wanting to do that, haven't you, sweet thing? You did not dare bring it up with Gereon, but you have been longing to find out, somehow, what I'd think of you? You and him?'   
  
Yavanna blushes so fiercely that, for a moment, the ghostly dungeon cell appears to get flooded in soft pinkish light.  
  
'Well, uh...' she mumbles. 'Well...'  
  
Whoever she is, a masquerading spirit or an omni... omniscient (smart Tevene word!) soul of the real dead Livia, she seems to have a really uncanny knack for seeing into Yavanna's thoughts. All of this has indeed been weighing on her mind; a few times, during a moment of sheer happiness, when she gazed into Gereon's eyes and felt that there was nothing else in the world she could possibly need, she would suddenly hold herself back, frightened and sheepish, and wonder if this was right. She has only just now managed to convince herself that the age gap between them does not matter... But it has to matter that he was already married once, hasn't it? It has to matter that another woman bonded herself with him - only to have him stolen away by an elven thief. A meddlesome little knife-ear - just as unwelcome as she was on the day Mamae gave birth to her.  
  
'Will you stop with the self-deprecation please!' Livia exclaims impatiently - having, once again, sensed what is transpiring inside Yavanna's head (maybe some of the elf's depressing thoughts even projected themselves onto the dungeon walls without her noticing... Quite a vision it would make, Mamae, tired and mostly likely really, really cranky after labour, being handed a squirming, squishy-faced newborn by the Keeper, and turning away).  
  
'As, thankfully, time does not really pass when you are hanging out in dreams like this one, I will gladly repeat it over and over and over for it to sink into your pretty little head: you are not a thief. Because you know what?'  
  
She places her hands on Yavanna's shoulders and looks meaningfully into her eyes.  
  
'Because Gereon is not my property.'  
  
She snorts in mild indignation.  
  
'Kaffas, I could never stomach referring to my servi as my property, much less to my husband! He is not a vase or a wine crate or a summer villa; he is a person, a man - a very devoted, affectionate man, underneath that magisterial mantle. I loved him very much - and I still do, if I am actually Livia... And if I am not, I am sure the real Livia keeps him in her heart, wherever she is. But really, sweetie - I am not the melodramatic “Mine or nobody's" type. Cannot fathom where you got that from... Or maybe I can'.   
  
She frowns slightly, as if troubled by an unpleasant memory.  
  
'Yes, Gereon told you about my father-in-law, didn't he? It's good that he trusts you so much; such things can gravely wound you from the inside unless you confide in someone... I wish I had the courage to talk it over with him before I died. I... I think he forgave me, but you can never be sure unless you ask a question in the face - that's what we are here for, after all'.  
  
'He did forgive you,' Yavanna reassures her gently, making a hesitant motion to embrace her (truly, old habits die hard).  
  
'But you are still a bit wary of me, aren't you?' Livia asks, with a slight note of sarcasm. 'Expecting me to reach out with my ghostly hands and strangle you for daring to touch my husband?'  
  
As she speaks, the flickering torchlight that dances across the dungeon walls acquires a new, colder shade, changing from reddish-gold to icy blue. The shadows deepen, and Livia's figure starts looking more like a wraith again, with wisps of silvery glow weaving a net of squarish loops over her robe - as if she was sitting on water's edge.  
  
'I never relished what I did,' Livia says gravely, looking somewhere past Yavanna. 'I never relished having to choose between having blood on my hands and losing my child. There was no evil cackling on my part, oh no - just this terrible, crippling fear... I almost screamed out loud when he sank into the pool: he...'  
  
Livia pauses for a couple of seconds, her jaw clenching.   
  
'He turned his face up and stared at me, through the water - and for a moment, he looked so much like Gereon that my heart stopped beating. I almost leapt in after him - but I stopped myself. I reminded myself that he was not Gereon. He was a cold, arrogant tyrant who thought he had a right to rule our lives - who referred to his own grandson as "that mishap" and talked of me as if I was barren... If he remained alive, we would have had no peace. Our boy would have had no childhood. And if we stopped being vigilant for but a second, Felix would have lost his life much, much earlier...'  
  
At this point, Yavanna does not hesitate any longer. Just as she hugged her husband once, in this very same cell (well, its real-world counterpart, to be more precise), she hugs Livia. And under her gentle, reassuring touch, the human woman's ghostly body grows soft and warm like living flesh, and the cold reflection of invisible waves transforms back into soothing firelight.  
  
'My, you really are generous with embraces, aren't you?' Livia chuckles, leaning against Yavanna. 'If I was alive like Gereon, I would have fallen for you too! But where... Where was I? Ah yes, you risking the same fate as my father-in-law. Please understand, sweetie: that man threatened my family. You do not. On the contrary, you have saved the one member of our little household that still lives. And just because I can no longer reach out and tell Gereon how much I care for him, doesn't mean I am going to forbid him to grow close to someone ever again! Especially when it is exactly what he needs. And what you need, too, sweetie'.  
  
Yavanna gives Livia a questioning look, and she nods her head, to reaffirm her last words.  
  
'You have been doing a remarkable job helping him feel whole again - but you are facing plenty of hardships of your own. Hardships that are best overcome with the help of someone who cherishes you like Gereon does. Your world-savior's duties weigh down on you, no matter how hard you pretend otherwise... And there are some unresolved things from your past, too - not to mention the more pending matters. Like, say, that distasteful cultist who is trying to fry your bone marrow while we are happily gossiping away'.  
  
'Oh... Oh right,' Yavanna says absently. 'I almost forgot about him'.  
  
'It's easy to forget about the mortal world when you are stuck in the Fade,' Livia concurs sagely. 'Trust me, I know. But don't worry: by the time you return to your poor abandoned body, I am certain the pesky torturer will have been dealt with. Gereon is nothing if not protective; you must have figured that out by now'.  
  
'He... He is going to save me?' Yavanna asks, her expression instantly lighting up with glee. 'Really? Oh my goodness, I have never been saved by him before!'  
  
'Well, he cannot always be plotting to erase you from time, now can he?' Livia points out. 'And if he does not charge in, fire bolts a-blazing, I shall consider haunting him just to show how disappointed I am... But while he is on his way, I suggest your brain keep doing the smart thing and maintain a state of unconsciousness to better handle the pain you are currently in. And while your body is fighting for your survival, we can pass the time here in your mind, doing some more gossiping. For example...'  
  
She grins slyly.  
  
'Have you lain with Gereon yet? I am a bit unclear on that; the dead know much, but not all. In either case, I think you will benefit from some expert tips...'


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That bit with the slides is probably rather ridiculous, but so is the whole premise of 'Alexius is one of the good guys now', so if you've stuck with me this far, you shouldn't be surprised by anything.

Griffon Wing Keep has perched itself on a tall, imposing natural wall, sinking its claws of stone and metal deep into the mass of red rock. If approached directly from the front, its gates seem impenetrable, vigilantly guarded by the outlandishly armoured figures that patrol back and forth at the foot of the rock wall. If, however, a wary outsider were to veer to the side and circle around the fortifications, keeping to the shadows cast by the red cliffs, the intrusion would likely pass unnoticed. This is what the four adventurers do, following the advice of young Lucian (who by now must be well on his way to meet Scout Harding and deliver the coded message about copper marigolds). As they approach the keep, they can catch glimpses the Venatori gatekeepers pacing across a narrow patch of dusty ground; but the path that they take, a long way to the left of the fortress's main entrance, is hidden from the guards' view. All they have to do is walk as quickly and quietly as they can - which they handle with at least some success... Though Alexius might beg to differ, given the scathing I-shall-destroy-you glare he gives Cassandra and Blackwall every time their bulky warrior armour gives a clank or their heavy boots sink into the deep, unyielding sand (thankfully, he has healed all of the Seeker's injuries sustained during the fight with Andronicus; otherwise, as Dorian once so eloquently put it, he might have turned her into paste for slowing them all down with her limping).  
  
Eventually, just like the helpful (though slobbering) young Tevinter described, the path takes them to the mouth of a in underground passageway, which bores deep into the fort's natural foundation like a cavity in a gigantic tooth (which has apparently been tinted red after drinking blood?.. Now that is a metaphor Varric could find a use for in one of his upcoming adventure novels). In keeping with Lucian's account, the way into the cavern is a barred by an enormous vertical whirlpool of lightning magic, which courses round and round and round in an endless cycle, spitting out white-hot sparks now and again.  
  
Motioning his three companions to stand back, Alexius steps in front of the enchanted barrier. The bright purple glow that it emits darkens the shadows around his eyes and cheekbones to stark strokes of charcoal, giving him a wild, gaunt look, as he casts a counterspell to disrupt the Venatori's defenses, with his eyes focused unblinkingly on the simmering vortex before him. A few moments later, the little threads of white light that have begun to stretch from the tips of his fingernails, each resembling a miniature thunderbolt, reach the barrier; hardly do they sink into this purple whirlpool, when it vanishes, with a blinding flash, erupting into a shower of sparks. Cassandra, Varric and Blackwall instinctively draw even further back (the dwarf bumps awkwardly into the Seeker as they do so, making her cough and stiffen her neck). But Alexius does not seem to care about the effect this burst of magic may have on him: he walks right through the barrier, while lingering sparks are still dancing in the air, stinging (most likely, quite painfully) at the skin of his face and the top of his head. The others hurry after him in single file, disappearing one by one into the mouth of the hidden cavern.  
  
The underground passage is dark and dank; the air, noticeably cooler than the desert outside, is permeated with a dense, tar-like smell: a mix of slow-running water, wet soil, and deep mushrooms, which cling to the cavern walls here and there, their dim natural glow highlighting streaks of some sort of greenish ore. Varric does not seem to appreciate this earthy bouquet: upon entering the tunnel, he instantly begins to grumble, as he often does when people expect him to be 'dwarfey' and grow boyishly excited over deep dark holes in the ground.  
  
The grumbling rapidly intensifies, reaching a climax of several 'Shit!'s when, with a loud splash, the four rescuers find themselves  stepping into an at least ankle-deep stream of water (quite unexpectedly, for by now they have walked too far from the source of light at the tunnel's opening to be able to properly discern their surroundings). There is some more awkward bumping in the wet murk, until, with a resigned, I-am-surrounded-by-idiots sort of sigh, Alexius snaps his fingers, letting a tiny golden wisp of fire magic sail upwards from his palm, just like when he guided himself and Yavanna through the snowstorm after the fall of Haven. Bobbing up and down in the air, the little tongue of magical flame brings out the underground stream, which flows through the darkness, glinting like molten copper, for as far as they can make out, until it disappears somewhere around the corner of the tunnel.  
  
'We'll be wasting time waddling through this mire,' Alexius curls his lips irritably. 'Who knows how far and how deep it goes. We have to get to the place that connects the spring to the keep - some sort of well, most likely... And fast'.  
  
'Do you have anything useful in mind?' Cassandra asks, in her usual brash manner. 'Or are you going to complain again, about how we are all detaining you?'  
  
'As a matter of fact, Seeker, I do have something useful in mind,' Alexius retorts. 'I will ask you all to stand back again. Get on firm ground'.  
  
As they obey him, trying their utmost not to stumble in the dark again, the magister, too, takes a step back out of the water, and then swooshes his hand through the air, his fingertips tingling with tiny green sparks as the Veil itself seems to give way under his touch.  
  
'I thought I told you: no Rifts!' Cassandra cries out, her loud, alarmed voice echoing through the cavern.  
  
'No Rifts, Seeker,' Alexius reassures her, in a silky, deliberately polite tone. 'Just a little manipulation of space and matter'.  
  
The water obeys his command just like the lightning vortex of the barrier did, not too long ago: as he keeps hovering his hand high above ground, the calm, almost mirror-like surface of the stream begins to ripple, as if being battered by countless invisible rain drops. The ripples keep growing larger and larger at an impossible speed, until, a second or two later, the boiling spring erupts into a giant jet of water, which shoots towards the tunnel's ceiling, spraying the stunned upturned faces of the three onlookers with the finest glittering wet dust.  
  
'Maker's balls!' Blackwall curses, undeniably awestruck. But the display of magic has only just begun.  
  
With another swooping motion, Alexius conjures up what looks like a powerful gust of ice magic; its frosty blue aura instantly envelops the water jet before it can come crushing down, turning it into a bizarre glassy construct, which slopes down towards the spring at a smooth angle. After taming the rising wave, the frost magic travels along its curve and continues to spread further into the tunnel, crackling faintly and leaving a perfectly smooth silvery ribbon in its wake.  
  
Alexius keeps up the spell for as long as he can; but after a few more seconds, apparently having run out of his mana reserves, he has to lower his hand and catch his breath. The moment he does that, Cassandra's Expression Scale once again hits the Worried sector. The Seeker just barely has time to leap to Alexius' side, as he begins to sway, his face almost completely colourless and crisscrossed with deep ashen lines.  
  
'I... I am fine...' he whispers weakly, trying to shrug off Cassandra's support. 'This was just a... bit of a... tricky... spell...'  
  
'Tricky is an understatement!' Varric whistles. 'You froze up all the water in here - and made us a whole damn slide! Inspired by your frolicking with Blueberry, are you?'  
  
Alexius nods, finally managing to extricate himself out of Cassandra's grasp and immediately beginning to cast a new spell - guiding a conjured ice shard through the air to chisel some semblance of steps on the side of the icy slope that is facing the four rescuers.  
  
A simple nod is all that he has the strength and concentration for at the moment - but there is so, so much more to it than the brief, absentminded movement of his head. So much warmth, and nostalgia, and sincere gratitude for the simple joys he was allowed to savour.  
  
That 'frolicking', as the dwarf called it, took place just before the very end of their fateful journey in search of the mysterious Skyhold keep. As the caravan made camp, preparing to tackle the last stretch of the mountain path, Yavanna discovered that there was an ice-covered slope nearby, which looked somewhat like the magical construct that the Tevinter has just erected in the cavern. After thoroughly inspecting her little find, the elf got hold of a small wooden plank, which must have been discarded by one of the refugees along the way, and, seeking out Alexius once again and pulling him after her with the eager impatience of a child on Satinalia morning, demonstrated the finer points of a new outlandish southern game, known as 'sledding'.  
  
The point of this winter entertainment seemed to be in experiencing the exhilarating thrill of speed by climbing to a high point and then slipping downwards along a slick layer of ice. Yavanna made several climbs onto that slope, each resulting in a swooshing downward slide; and all the while, she encouraged her unlikely Tevinter friend to join her. He never dared to, still aloof and tense and quite a bit lost (and also still recovering from that snowball fight, and trying to convince himself that he had had been involved in enough undignified pursuits to last a lifetime). But even so, just watching Yavanna rush by, raising a cloud of fine snowy powder and screaming at the top of her lungs, arms raised up high and head thrown back; just being near someone brimming over with the bold, unabashed happiness of youth; just hearing the chirping ring of her laughter, and looking into her widened eyes when she ran up to him, grinning - all of this momentarily put his aching, restless mind at ease.  
  
For whatever reason, he suddenly remembered one of those 'good' nights during the first and the most difficult period of Felix's illness, when he had been still bedridden but conscious: worn out after a recent retching fit, the boy (perhaps halfway towards slipping into the clutches delirium) had asked his father to read him one of the bedtime stories he used to be fond of as a child. Too exhausted and shaken by his struggle to keep Felix alive, Alexius had not had it in him to object; and after hearing the story out, his boy had looked up at him, with those sunken, dim eyes, swollen with dark blood - and smiled. Just as his father would smile, years later, after failing in his quest to save his child's life - the faint but sincere smile of someone who had been struggling with agonizing pain and suffocating darkness, and then suddenly received yet another reminder that there were things in life that brought people happiness. Even if most of these things were actually trivial, childish, rather ridiculous pursuits... Like singing songs at the campfire. Or playing snowballs. Or reading fairy stories. Or sliding down an icy hill.  
  
This memory of Yavanna, like many other mosaic-like snippets preserved in his mind, is quite dear to Alexius. Perhaps he did not even realize how dear until his mind helpfully suggested a way to speed up his and his companions' advance into the cave.  
  
Varric is still grinning knowledgeably when the magister steps to the side of the frozen wave and gives the others an expectant look.  
  
'This will takes us to wherever this stream leads faster than dragging our feet through the water. All of us - even you non-mages who cannot use the Fade Step spell'.  
  
Blackwall mumbles something incoherent into his beard; Cassandra, too, looks uncertain as to how to react - but before either of them can speak up, Alexius silences them, sounding quite exasperated,  
  
'I know this is supposed to be a children's pastime in the south. This terrible secret shall stay between us. Now climb up here if you please. I shall use my remaining magical energy to give us enough momentum for the entire slide'.  
  
'Hey, Hawke got up to crazier stunts while saving her friends' butts,' Varric says genially, clambering to the top of the makeshift slide. 'I actually think Blueberry will appreciate it... Buttercup probably will too'.  
  
While he is talking, Cassandra, Blackwall, and Alexius manage to make their way up after him. And then, with the help of another spell, courtesy of the former magister (which pushes them over the slide's edge like a gigantic invisible hand), Thedas' most efficient rescue team sets off.  
  
Whizzing along the frozen stream like four blurs (one determined, two embarrassed, and one just beginning to register that he is actually kind of happy to feel the less hairy of the embarrassed blurs holding on to him from behind), they almost instantly find themselves sprawled in the middle of a small, ice-covered underground lake, with a bucket hanging over its further end, outlined in a silhouette against the broad beam of light that comes through a deep stone shaft.  
  
'Whoah!' Blackwall breathes out, slowly straightening up his wobbly legs and spreading out his arms to keep balance on the ice. 'And there is the well! That _was_ fast! And likely to leave bruises on all our arses...'  
  
'Ah, what would I do without your eloquent praise, Warden?' Alexius sneers (his tone, though still sarcastic, is noticeably less hostile than during that heated exchange with Blackwall that almost ended in a shower of exploding fire balls).  
  
'So, what's your plan now, Time Lord?' Varric inquires, shuffling up to the well. 'I don't think any of us will fit into that measly bucket, even your favourite perfectly built dwarf'. (Hearing that last remark, Cassandra, who has just gotten up herself, hastens to look away).  
  
'I know that as a writer, you won't forgive me for my lack of creativity, Master Dwarf,' Alexius says, with speckles of vivid green beginning to float over his hands once again as he squints at the narrow sliver of dark water, directly below the bucket, where his torrent of ice magic has not reached.   
  
'But I intend to make us another ladder'.  
  
'Blimey, does everyone in Tevinter solve their problems by splashing water around?' Blackwall asks, while he, Varric, and Cassandra watch a new fountain of water spurt upwards at the magister's command, twisting round the rope that supports the bucket, like a multitude of rippling silken ribbons.  
  
'We are quite partial to bathing, yes - unlike some people,' Alexius retorts, his breathing growing somewhat uneven with the strain of keeping the water stream where he wants it to be, and then freezing it into a crispy-white, spiky semblance of a rope ladder. 'But thus spell combination is not common... In fact, I just invented it. Dorian picked up his skills from the best, you know'.  
  
There is a number of Dorian's 'skills' (sassing the Grey Wardens, for one) that Blackwall would have loved to remark upon - but instead he pushes himself clumsily across the ice to keep Alexius from staggering.  
  
'You might want to tweak it so it doesn't wear you down like this,' he suggests, his tone very cautious (last time he tried to express concern over Madame Vivienne faltering in battle, she almost burned a hole in his beard with a mighty venom spit).  
  
'Kind of like... a warrior adjusting heavy armour?'  
  
'These two things have nothing in common,' Alexius cuts him off, taking deep, slightly rasping breaths. 'Now stop wasting time on me lest the sun melts the ice!'  
  
Blackwall obeys, along with the rest of the little rescue party. It has not yet properly dawned on either the Warden or  Cassandra that, for quite some while now, they have been compliantly following the lead of a Tevinter magister, who is technically supposed to be in their custody. The thought begins to sink in only after they clamber up the icy ladder (which proves to be remarkably sturdy) and emerge back into the blazing, pale-yellow sunlight, in the middle of an open courtyard inside the fortress. But they really have no time to process this discovery, or to be outraged by it. What occupies them far more is the next stage of the plan.  
  
From their positions around the well, they can see the broad flight of stone steps, as well as the tall battlements, which are guarded by gigantic metal griffon statues, left after the keep's previous owners and now having to tolerate their intrusive new neighbours: the carved wooden serpent heads and canvas banners with images of intertwining reptilian creatures (which gives the thin downward curve of their beaks an entirely new, displeased meaning). Among this mix of Warden and Tevinter paraphernalia, several figures can be seen patrolling back and forth, most of them barely dressed save for a glinting metal pauldron or two, and a white linen loincloth.  
  
'The Venatori did not even bother to equip their gatekeepers properly,' Cassandra whispers, pulling her shield for behind her back.  
  
'That's because they are mere meat shields,' Alexius explains, in a similarly lowered voice, pointing at one of the guards as he comes closer into view.  
  
Luckily for the four adventurers, the man has his (muscled and very, very brightly glistening) back turned towards them. His head is closely shaved, and without hair to get in the way, it is clearly visible that he is wearing a heavy metal collar around his neck.   
  
'No-one will mourn the loss of a battle-trained slave,' Alexius comments bitterly, watching his companions' eyes widen with understanding.  
  
'The more valued defenders will likely be further in... Waiting to become our targets'.  
  
'Well, I have something that will get us past these guys and to their masters,' Varric whispers decisively, rummaging through his trusty pockets and producing a large flask, filled with sparkling purplish powder. 'No self-respecting rogue leaves home without one of these babies; this will put our oiled friends riiight to sleep...'  
  
The volume of the dwarf's voice has been steadily rising; and by the end of the sentence, he is speaking loudly enough to alert the Venatori slave. As the man stops his monotonous pacing and slowly turns his head towards the well, Cassandra opens her mouth in silent indignation and attempts to clap her hand over the dwarf's babbling mouth; but Varric dodges her, grinning smugly, stares right into the slave's face, winks at him, and just as he cries out to alert his brethren, tosses the flask.  
  
It smashes against one of the bottom steps of the staircase, releasing a dense cloud of purple fumes, which swaddles the slave (who has just begun running down towards the courtyard, brandishing a small, leaf-shaped blade) in a heavy, irresistible blanket, making him sink to the ground and curl up on one stone step, with the other one, right above it, serving as a head rest.  
  
The same fate befalls all the other gatekeepers, who have dashed downstairs from the battlements to their fellow 'meat shield's aid. When the purple cloud dissipates and the four rescuers deem it safe to continue their journey into the keep, they have to step over about a dozen scantily clad men, all gathered up into cozy, cat-like balls, with their knees pressed against their sweaty chests and their mouths wide open.  
  
'This is probably the most sleep these poor souls have had in months,' Alexius sighs, lifting up the hem of his robe as it is just about to brush against the grimy face of a middle-aged, scarred slave, who has a huge opaque bubble blowing out of his nostril.  
  
'Theirs are not kind masters'.  
  
'Oh, hey, wait up a moment!' Varric pipes up, pausing in his tracks and whipping out his notebook again. 'Speaking of masters...'  
  
After a moment or two of intense scribbling, he rips out another sheet and lays it down underneath the scarred slave's hand.  
  
'Let's hope that at least some of these guys are literate'.  
  
His curiosity piqued, Blackwall, too, lingers behind, and glances down to see what the dwarf has written. The missive reads as follows,

  
  
 __ **We are gonna kick your masters' butts. When we are done, consider yourselves free.**  
  
Sincerely,   
  
Your friendly neighbourhood Inquisition

  
  
'I would've doodled the hairy eye, too,' Varric says, hurrying up the stairs to catch up with Cassandra and Alexius. 'But we've got Blueberries to save!'  
  
When the dwarf and the Warden make it to the next level of the keep, they see that Cassandra is standing there alone, making g a whole series of disgusted noises.  
  
'He has done it again!' she cries out in desperation when the others approach. 'That Fade Step trick! Maker knows where he has vanished to!'  
  
'I can hazard a pretty good guess,' Varric peers forward, shielding his eyes with his hand. 'Where, as Bull would put it, he can make the most mayhem'.


	9. Chapter 9

There is only one thing that Macrinus regrets: the barrier of the magical cage that he has trapped the elf in serves as a screen, muffling her screams. He would have loved to hear them: he has always rejoiced at the sound of that glorious song of pain - the reassurance of his triumph and of his enemies defeat; his perfect gift for the Elder One.  
  
In hindsight, perhaps he should have chosen a different spell. Perhaps he should have thrust the insolent little creature into the midst of a torrent of fire, and watched her flesh boil into a sticky red crust, while her lips would tear apart in scream after delightful scream, bloody bubbles hanging from them like a garland of rubies. Or perhaps he should have pierced her wrists with a handful of diamond-like ice shards, letting her elven blood mix with the dust underfoot, finally revealing its true filth - drop by drop, till her tattooed face grey as blue as his frost magic. Or perhaps he should have let a cloud of smoke hang over her head, like a bloated octopus, its wriggling tentacles reaching down and crawling into her eyes and ears, poisoning her mind with nightmarish images that would make her want to claw chunks of raw flesh of out her narrow, heaving chest.  
  
All of these handy magical tools would have helped him exalt the Elder One, the true god of new Tevinter, by letting the sobbing hymn of agony rise to the heavens, borne out of the Marked impostor's chest. But then again, this crushing cage, too, has its merits, even if it does hold back those wondrous screams. For one thing, it prevents the pointy-eared creature from wielding the Anchor that she had the audacity to steal from the Elder One, and then merge with herself so that it could never be removed. And, of course, the barrier does allow Macrinus  to get a good look at his captive's face, as she floats a few inches above ground, suspended in a vertical position by his masterful spellcraft, her head thrown back and her throat contracting with noiseless rasps of pain.  
  
Pacing in an endless circle round and round the elf, with his eyes always fixed on her hovering, twitching little body, Macrinus gazes intently through the billowing pall of magical energy; and as he does so, he is able to make out every crease, every wrinkle of the wretch's pained countenance; every bead of sweat and every teardrop. And what he sees makes him feel immensely satisfied... immensely satisfied indeed. His chest swells with purest, most profound pride when he looks on at his handiwork. By the True God, he can barely contain the soaring, wild happiness that courses through his veins!.. The southerners, with their uncouth choice of metaphors, would have probably compared his elation with the excitement of a hound that has captured an elusive beast for its master... And frankly, he does not really object against this possible parallel. He is boundlessly grateful for getting this chance to serve the Elder One as a faithful hound, and to (metaphorically) sink his teeth into the quarry that he intends to bring before his mighty master, torn and bloodied as it befits a worthless piece of meat that thought itself the 'Inquisitor'. And every morsel Macrinus bites off, by means of his magic, is infinitely delectable...  
  
Up until the point when his prey stops writhing in the clutches of the enchanted cage. Macrinus does not notice it at first, too carried away by his joyous musings of his triumph (which is, ultimately, the Elder One's triumph, for his whole life, his deeds, and eventually, his death, all belong to his god). But when the happy haze clears somewhat, Macrinus peers at the captured creature a little closer... And hisses a few long curses in Tevene.  
  
That damn elf! She still remains in the same pose, but her eyelids have now slid shut, and her expression is gradually turning very calm, serene even, with something suspiciously akin to a smile just barely touching the corners of her lips. Curse this insolent little thief, the usurper of the Elder One's glory, the miserable prey that has finally found itself where it belongs, in the grasp of a worthy predator!.. She has dared to defy the faithful yet again! Instead of spending every waking moment in excruciating suffering like she is supposed to, she has decided to lose consciousness! Her mind has now taken to wandering the Fade, no doubt - and what is the point of tormenting the body if the mind is not there to register its suffering?  
  
With a sharp cry of frustration, Macrinus waves his hand, dispelling the wounding barrier around the pointy-eared prisoner, and then bends down, eyeing her with a mix of curiosity and distaste, the way a scholar exploring the wilds would eye a rare species of some slimy, wart-covered toad.  
  
She did not make a single sound as she dropped down, no longer supported by Macrinus' spell... Yes, there was that small thud her head made against the stone; but it has not been followed by any sobs or groans... not even the tiniest whimper to tickle Macrinus' senses. She just lies there, stiff and silent, her arms bent at the elbow at an angle the Tevinter mage never would have thought possible. This will not do; this will not do at all: he has to wake her up to make her feel pain again!   
  
Flexing his fingers in a habitual, almost instinctive gesture (he cannot possibly keep track of the number of times he has had to use it, while cleansing the world of the Elder One's enemies), Macrinus prepares to cast a bolt of shock magic, with enough charge to course through the elf's heart and make her jolt back to consciousness. But, much to his annoyance, he is most rudely interrupted before he can even take aim properly.  
  
Someone out there in the fort has the gall to start cursing loudly, and groan, and yelp in many different voices - and finally, cry out the leading Venatori's name in what sounds like a wheezing, shrill plea for help. Really, what has gotten into those imbeciles now? Are they having a collective heatstroke?  
  
Distracted by the noise, Macrinus has to turn away from his prey, straightening his back and glancing impatiently left and right to see what all the commotion is about.  
  
By now, the general clamour of voices has already died down, save for that last wheezing call, which gets repeated a couple of times more, appearing to originate directly behind the portcullis separating Macrinus' platform from the rest of the keep (he lowered it after asking not to be disturbed, by casting a telekinesis spell on the control lever). Leaving the senseless elf behind, the mage strides across the fortress' upper level and peers down the staircase through the gaps in the metal lattice of the portcullis. It barely takes him a moment to register the source of that regrettable disturbance. The bothersome outcry has come from one of his underlings, an archer in a set of silvery-white hooded armour. What little he can see of the man's face seems vaguely familiar, but Macrinus has never overexerted himself when it came to trying to remember the faces and names of the bland, expendable minions that have been put at his disposal so he could carry out his master's will. Some of them, of course, are somewhat worthy of being considered his equals (although he highly doubts that any of them could reach his level of devotion to the Elder One) - but such instances are extremely rare.  
  
In any case, right now this man's exact identity is even less relevant than ever; what is relevant is the large shard of ice that is sticking out of his chest, its trickle of thawing water mixing with ribbon-like streaks of scarlet that run down his ornate garments (soiling them beyond all salvation). Evidently, the hapless archer has been struck with this frosty projectile from behind, like with a knight's lance - rather creative use of ice magic, Macrinus must concede. He should take note of this spell for future use - after he destroys whoever did this, of course. He could not care less about this pathetic minion, who proved completely incapable of defending himself, his superior, or this strategic outpost of the Elder One's forces; thus, the mage's expression remains completely unmoved, as he watches the archer stagger forward and grip desperately at the lattice, with his frightened, pain-filled eyes bulging like boiled eggs against the rye-bread tan of his face (What? Even the most powerful of the Venatori do get hungry), his bleeding chest heaving, and his feet dragging limply across the ground. But even though the minion's life is no grave loss to feel vengeful over, the very fact that someone dared to encroach in the keep and assault one of its guards is an affront to the Venatori and the Elder One; and that is something that Macrinus would greatly enjoy punishing the miscreant for personally.  
  
Using the same spell as when he sealed himself off, with no-one but his elven prey keeping him company, Macrinus moves the lever again. As the portcullis begins to rise, with a loud grinding noise, the archer loses his balance without the lattice to cling to, and sags heavily to the ground, the last slivers of his life force melting in the glaring sun faster than the ice shard lodged in his flesh. But his superior is much, much too busy to dawdle about and try to revive him; and so, the wretch has nothing left to do but to lay with his face plastered into the stone floor, his dying eyes focused on Macrinus' black, slightly pointy boots... Which are the last thing the archer will ever see before his world goes black for all eternity.  
  
  
  
With neither the metal bars nor the swaying minion blocking his view any longer, Macrinus can take a far better look at what is transpiring on the lower level. Now he can see why that outbreak of noise behind his back settled down so quickly.  
  
The downstairs level of the keep, which still has scaffolding here and there, as the Venatori have been planning to install their defensive and magical equipment (not to mention replace that tacky griffon memorabilia with signage of their own), is now littered with bodies. More minions, as far as Macrinus can see - all wearing similar white armour, and all spotting almost identical blurred scarlet marks on their chests. Above their heads, hanging very low over the blood-splattered stone, is a small but very dense and dark storm cloud, which looks exceedingly out of place against the pallid desert sky. Rippling like the stuffed belly of some fat beast with thick grey fur, it is still belching out large, sharpened chunks of ice, which rain all over the keep's lower level, accompanied by small flurries of (obviously magically conjured) snow. If any of the Venatori archers were still standing, they would have surely been struck down by this destructive hail of lance-like shards faster than they could try making a dash towards a safer part of the keep. The spell-caster who dared brew a deadly winter storm in the heart of a desert fortress is, so far, concealed from view by the hazy snowy mist of his or her spell. Macrinus thinks he can catch glimpses of what looks like a robed silhouette - but he cannot approach and make certain, lest he be hit by one of these falling ice shards. So far, all he can do is prepare a proper greeting for the intruder - a little golden orb in his palm, ready to swell and spread out into a wall of flames.  
  
Gradually, the storm cloud begins to fade away, and the snowy flurry lifts its pall off the robed spellcaster - a man, as it turns out, dressed in a modest robe of the kind the miserable subjugated southern mages usually wear. In silence that is as heavy as the cloud he summoned, the intruder glances past his harvest of bodies, and his eyes meet Macrinus'.  
  
Now, unlike the twisted, horrified visage of the dying minion, this interloper's features are memorable enough to be associated with a name in Macrinus' mind; but that name does not count among the names of the worthy. No, the man who is now looking at him, his deeply lined face frozen in an expression of grim determination, is no longer a peer of any devout Venatori. He may have had a right to count himself among them - he may have even inspired respect and awe... once, when the Elder One, in his great wisdom, found him a purpose. A lofty purpose, worthy of envy, and so vital for their cause. Back then, this particular servant of the new god might have earned a chance to stand side by side with Macrinus and bask in the light of Tevinter's glorious future; but that time has long since passed. The purpose was not fulfilled; the fumbling servant disappointed his master (Macrinus is adamant that if it were him carrying out that mission, he would never have made any of this fool's mistakes, but that is rather beside the point). And now the man who, by the grace of his god, once held the threads of the very loom of fate in his hands, is no more than a broken tool that has, by far, outlived its usefulness. If the Inquisition had not stepped in when it did, he would have been punished for his failure by his own brethren - who may have found at least some minor consolation in harvesting his blood for the greater good.  
  
But now it appears that the ownership of the tool has been claimed by the southern barbarians. They have even found a nice little robe for him, with a tentacled eye symbol and all - perfect for his new status as an Inquisition lackey.  
  
With his eyes still focused unblinkingly on Macrinus, the man draws closer, walking up the stairs in the bloodied footprints the Venatori minion he has just slain. His gait is slow, like that of a sleepwalker, but at the same time, there is a certain steady rhythm to it, which grows more ominous by the moment, especially as he knits his eyebrows and curls his lips in a shadowy scowl, while his cheekbones and the tip of his nose are highlighted by the cold white glow of a new frost magic charge.   
  
He holds the wisp of his spell at the level of his chest, letting it throb against his fingertips like a visible reflection of his mounting heartbeat. Macrinus mirrors the motion, ready to counter the intruder's ice with his mage fire, but otherwise remains motionless, waiting patiently till the other spellcaster comes within speaking range. When he does, the Venatori lets his mouth twitch slightly, momentarily betraying his inner malicious laughter, and says, with silken mockery, not deigning to address his former comrade in Tevene,  
  
'I see you are trying very hard to impress your new masters, Alexius - barging into my keep, killing my men, interrupting my work... Well, perhaps the little Inquisitor can be persuaded to pat you on the back for your efforts - before you are both turned into fleshy paste'.  
  
Just as he finishes speaking, Macrinus hurtles a broiling coil of magical flame at the treacherous interloper. The fire lashes against the stone like a whip - but the outer end of its long, hissing thread does not as much as scratch Alexius, who promptly teleports out of its reach, leaving behind a lingering shadow of himself, which is woven out of greenish Fade magic, and dissolves a couple of seconds later. Macrinus would have probably begun to ask himself in exasperation where the blasted turncoat could have vanished to - but he does not get a chance to do so. He is still staring at the place when Alexius stood when he began to taunt him, when a sudden shudder rushes through his body, as a sharp, dagger-like piece of enchanted ice presses against his neck and chin, while more frost magic spreads down his arm, making his flesh lose all feeling. Alexius has materialized behind him, with one hand holding an ice shard at his throat, and the other, gloved in a tiny snowy flurry and tightly gripping his forearm.  
  
'Seeing that I am so kindly protecting you from the desert heat, amicus meus,' Alexius hisses into the Venatori's ear, mimicking his tone of drawling, poisoned treacle, 'I am certain you will repay me by telling me where the Inquisitor is. Now'.  
  
Even though his lips have turned numb with cold, Macrinus still somehow manages to squeeze out a hoarse chortle.  
  
'Look behind you, _amicus,'_ he jeers. 'The Inquisitor is just up these stairs, waiting for the Elder One. Ready to be destroyed as she should have been long ago'.  
  
With this remark, he counts on killing two proverbial birds at once: first, to rub it in that he, Macrinus, has done what Alexius could not; and then, to distract him, at least for a moment, diminishing the effect of his frost spell. But what Macrinus could not have possibly foreseen is the extent to which Alexius becomes... distracted (of course, if Alexius' son were still alive and present during this little scene, he would have found his father' reactions all too familiar - but Macrinus has no way of knowing that).  
  
After the Venatori finishes speaking, Alexius does not simply turn away from him and power down his ice magic - he stops casting the spell altogether and, almost throwing Macrinus down the stairs, right on top of the body pile, rushes to the keep's upper level. Dusting himself off and taking a moment or two to enjoy the feeling of warmth returning to his limbs, Macrinus shifts his weight from one foot to the other in order to regain balance (as he has almost slipped on a streak of sticky blood, left behind by some dead minion or other) and then hurries after Alexius, intending to catch him off-guard as he examines the Inquisitor's body.  
  
Macrinus finds his adversary in a most bizarre pose - so unlike the Alexius he remembers that he almost becomes the one who gets caught off-guard. Ludicrous as it might sound, the Inquisition's lackey is... cradling his new owner close to his chest, with his trembling fingers travelling up and down her broken arms, ethereal ribbons of healing magic trailing after them, and with his face now resembling that of a very old, feeble man who has gotten lost in unfamiliar surroundings and cannot recollect where he was headed. Shortening the distance between them by a few more steps, Macrinus can even hear him chant frantically under his breath,  
  
'Please... Please... Please... This is just like our first journey together, remember? I found you, and healed you, and you opened your eyes and declared me your friend... Please... Please... Please do the same now... Is it too much to ask? Is it too much to hope for... That you will stay with me?'  
  
So, the detestable traitor has sunk to even lower depths than Macrinus surmised. He has not simply pledged himself to the very woman he was supposed to cut out of the fabric of time: he has formed some sort of emotional dependency on her. Like the one he had on that sickly offspring of his. How pathetic... Well, at least the Elder One will be pleased to see this worm crushed alongside with his precious Inquisitor.  
  
When Alexius finally looks up, his expression changes again. The lost, terrified old man is gone, and in his stead, Macrinus once more sees the fierce battle mage that glared at him over a pile of bloodied corpses.   
  
'There are magic burn marks on her body,' Alexius says, his voice cracking with barely contained rage. 'Lucian was right to warn us... I - I will turn your skin inside out for this!'  
  
'If you can stand up first, amicus,' Macrinus responds  graciously - and fires a spell at him.  
  
The poor wretched turncoat may have worked himself into a fighting mood - but he has been too consumed by his wrath to notice that, while he was tossing his threats around, Macrinus managed to figure out how to conjure up that ice blast of his.  
  
Oh, Macrinus is ready to swear by the Elder One - there is hardly anything more entertaining the look on Alexius' face when, faster than his stunned mind can register what is about to happen, a glowing shard zooms through the air towards him and, with a ripe squelch, rips through his robe's fabric and burrows deep into his flesh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deadly ice shards are one of my favourite parts of writing magical combat scenes in the Elder Scrolls universe, so I thought I'd let Dragon Age characters use them as well.


	10. Chapter 10

'See, Seeker, the enemies-out-of-the-sky thing doesn't only happen in my books!' Varric cries out, hoisting his trusty Bianca on his shoulder and taking aim at the steadily approaching (and unsettlingly chanting) Venatori mages, who seem to have projected themselves out of nowhere, just as Cassandra and Blackwall were in the middle of grumbling about how that reckless Tevinter was foolishly ignoring all their warnings.  
  
The arrival of the dark, sharp-hooded, and evidently battle-ready figures is so sudden that Cassandra barely has time to make her customary disgusted noise at Varric's nonchalant attitude. With the loud 'Hmph!' still on her lips, she thrusts her shield forward, protecting both herself and the dwarf from an incoming bolt of arcane energy - which hits the unyielding wall of metal with a loud sizzle, like the one made by a firework as it soars into the sky, and then bursts apart into countless white, blue, and purple sparks. Sheltered from the Venatori's onslaught, at least for a while, Varric buys himself a few precious moments to load a special little bolt into his crossbow, which, once he lets it fly towards the moving row of black robes, also causes a little firework-like explosion of its own; only in this case, the sparks are fiery-red, and they seem to sting quite painfully at the enemy mages, causing them to interrupt their chanting and leap back, rubbing at the singed holes in their broad sleeves, where the scattering embers have touched them. This confusion in the Venatori's ranks is made even more disorienting by the ferocious, thundering battle cry that the Seeker lets out (ah, at least Varric has found his thesaurus again... maybe he should go for the river metaphor here; this wave of sound certainly has the effect of a torrential stream that sweeps off and uproots everything in its wake).  
  
Seizing the moment while most of their foes are stunned, Blackwall and Cassandra rush forward, ready to cleave through their ranks with their bared weapons; whereas Varric stays some paces behind them, punctuating the broad, bold sweeps of the blades with a well-placed crossbow shot now and again (and here comes another metaphor! It looks like that seeing Cassandra yank her sword out of a Venatori's chest, blood splattering all over her face, is making him almost as inspired to write battle scenes as when Hawke and Broody would run around the Hightown market square in the dead of night, with some thug's guts wrapped around their necks like Satinalia garlands, and he would point at them and say to Daisy or Rivaini or whoever else happened to be listening, 'Just look at those dorks in love!').  
  
Still, as inspiring as the Inquisition team's fighting style is, not all of the mages have been affected by Varric's exploding bolt and by Cassandra's deafening battle cry. One of them, as it now turns out, has managed to whiz magically out of harm's way. His teleporting spell (blast it, and they thought it was annoying when Alexius used it!) has placed him right behind Varric - and, as luck would have it, the sneaky mage has materialized just at the moment when the two warriors are too busy disposing of the other, stupefied Venatori, hurrying to land as many blows as possible before their adversaries can fully recover and begin weaving their destructive magic.  
  
Still, even when left to fend for himself, Varric does not lose his wits: he is able to tell that there is a mage looming behind him, as the charge of lightning in his black-gloved hands begins to hiss loudly into his ear. The dwarf has but a couple of seconds to act before the spell gets fully powered up - but that is more than ample time to perform the classical trick that was so popular among rogues some ten years ago (in fact, Varric would bet anything that the proper Orzammar dwarves still go reeling when they recall that Antivan elf fella, who pulled off something in this vein while fighting in the Provings alongside the Hero of Ferelden).  
  
It just so happens that Varric's elbow is around the same level as the Venatori's crotch; he realizes it when he shoots a quick glance at the sinister robed silhouette behind him out of the corner of his eye. Smirking at his discovery, Varric thrusts his arm as far back as he can, till his elbow hits its squishy target; the Venatori yowls in pain, his eyes almost popping out of their sockets, and takes to leaping on the spot and flapping his arms, with his hood falling back and his evil cultist dignity forgotten. This causes his readied shock blast to misfire, zigzagging a long way over the dwarf's head and hitting the Venatori's own comrades.  
  
The spell's charge turns out to be so powerful that, after shooting through the chest of each of the robed mages in turn, like a white-hot metal spit passing through the crispy flesh of a row of toasted chicken breasts (nah, this metaphor probably won't do; making the reader feel hungry is something that should be reserved for a different sort of scenes), it leaves behind a trail of little ash piles, each no bigger than a molehill.  
  
Blackwall and Cassandra, who have just barely managed to dodge the wayward blast of disintegrating shock magic, remain gaping at their feet, with juicy rivulets of gore still dripping from their armour, apparently not quite believing how quickly the cultists have been disposed of. In the meanwhile, having more or less recovered from Varric's assault on his family heritage, the last remaining Venatori stares at what he has unwittingly wrought with a mixture of dread and rage. After he has collected his wits enough to do something other than pant hoarsely, he grabs the smugly nodding dwarf by the back of his overcoat's collar, pulling him abruptly towards himself, and swathes his hand in another spell, fire this time, fully intending to dig his stiff, crooked, flaming fingers deep into his enemy's eye sockets.  
  
Of course, Varric is more than ready to fight back with another well-aimed roguish kick; but this time, he does not get to perform this neat little stunt, as he almost gets clubbed heavily on the head by the blunt side of the flying grappling hook, which Blackwall has whipped out once again, managing to catch a firm hold of the Venatori's robe. Letting go of the dwarf, the cultist starts wiggling frantically, trying to knock Blackwall out with a spell. All of his efforts yield no fruit, however - perhaps because he is still recovering from Varric's cunning assault, or because Cassandra has gathered up enough stamina to use one of her magic-negating Seeker abilities. Thus, ignoring the captured mage's feeble attempts to cook up a fireball (which ultimately turns out to be little more than a coughing little puff of smoke) or to recreate that seething lightning blast (which does not go any further than a tiny spark, not enough to as much as singe a fellow's beard), the good Warden successfully reels his robed 'fish' in and finishes him off with a swift slash of his blade across his exposed throat.  
  
'By the Maker... look at that!' Cassandra exclaims breathlessly.  
  
'Yeah, Hero did some nice work, I suppose,' Varric says, squinting at Blackwall as he sheathes his blade and gives one last sombre farewell look to the 'sorry bastard' he has just killed. 'But I had it all under control, just so you know!'  
  
'What?' the Seeker asks in confusion. 'No... I mean - look at that!'  
  
To clarify what she has been trying to say, Cassandra points upwards; following the direction of her gesture, the Warden and the dwarf are astonished to see an enormous charcoal-black cloud, hanging over the parapets of the keep's upper level.  
  
'Dammit, what is this thing?' Blackwall mutters. 'Are they burning something?'  
  
'That something better not be Blueberry!' Varric says in alarm, breaking into a run as fast as his dwarven legs allow him.  
  
The two humans follow him, maneuvering among the piles of wooden planks and the tall scaffolding that the Venatori have hammered together in several places across the entire fort. All the while, their eyes track the dark cloud; soon enough, it becomes obvious that it has not been caused by a pyre, or anything of that nature. On the contrary, it seems to be linked to the element of ice rather than fire: for there are flurries of snow trailing among the heavy folds of grey, and now and again, something glints dazzlingly in the sunlight, like icicles falling to the ground out of the cloud's heart. Something like this definitely does not belong in the desert, but there _is_ one reasonable explanation of where this outlandish blizzard could have come from: the impatient 'Time Lord' must have gotten himself into some sort of magical boss battle - without waiting for backup.  
  
  
  
Though dark and menacing, the storm cloud does not last for long. By the time the belated backup finally does arrive, the sky is clear once again, and the burning white rays pour unhindered over the blood-splattered stone staircase, highlighting every gruesome detail of the pile of dead bodies, which litter the approach to the topmost level - with oddly crooked limbs, purple-tinged faces, and streaks of hoarfrost caking over their clothing.  
  
The boss battle seems to have gone well, so far, for none of the corpses has the familiar Inquisition-issued robes and age-worn features of their newest companion - nor is any of the slain females in the common pile an elf. This thought should have been comforting - but before Cassandra, Blackwall, or Varric can even begin to feel relieved, the three of them find themselves at the top of the staircase, and realize that the trove of bloodied bodies has marked merely the first stage of this (pretty eventful) boss battle.  
  
Outlined with perfect clarity against the broiling sky and the brilliant, almost painful whiteness of the soaring serpent banners, there stands yet another figure in black Venatori garb, with its head inclined, ever so slightly, in the direction of the helpless, shivering captive, who is kneeling at the robed victor's feet and clutching with one hand at a glaring, ever-swelling streak of dark red that sullies the fabric of a... familiar Inquisition-issued robe.  
  
At the moment of the three heroes' arrival, the triumphant Venatori is in the middle of a jeering monologue, addressed to his wounded foe.  
  
'Your death is long overdue, Alexius,' he says, laughing a quiet, cold laugh, as he watches the other man struggle to maintain eye contact, by keeping his head from sinking listlessly onto his blood-soaked chest. 'And it is only too fitting that it be delivered by a real Venatori. A just repayment for all the disappointment your so-called "researcher's talent" brought us. You proved a blundering, incompetent fool in every single instance when the Elder One trusted you. You failed to bring the southern mages to heel; you failed to properly round up the Tranquil; and do I even need to mention this...'  
  
Here, he kicks casually at the large, vaguely person-shaped lump that lies on the ground before him. The three horror-struck rescuers do not have to look on at the scene too long to realize that it is, in fact, a second captive: Yavanna, their Inquisitor, their lost friend, alarmingly stiff and silent, with her upper torso propped up against Alexius' knees and her limp hands resting on her chest, while the bleeding, barely conscious 'Time Lord' grips at her obedient little fingers with his free hand, either as a way of at least somehow clinging on to reality, or as an instinctive reassurance of affection (rendered completely meaningless, as the elf does not seem to be aware that he is there, holding on to her).  
  
The Venatori rambles on and on, about serving the Elder One and sharing in his glory after the Inquisition is crushed (which is evidently what he intends to do when he is done tormenting Yavanna and Alexius). But the Inquisitor's companions take no further heed of him; while he is still soliloquizing, so far oblivious of their presence, they take to whispering amongst themselves, their voices rapid and tremulous with emotion.  
  
'Shit, they're both so battered up!' Varric hisses urgently. 'I think I have one miserable little potion left, but...'  
  
'Leave it to me,' Cassandra cuts him short. 'You and Ser Blackwall stand back for now; give me space to do what must be done'.  
  
The two men open their mouths, a multitude of unspoken 'What's and 'How's hanging in the air - but Cassandra does not deign to add anything else, aside from a meaningful frown. Then, she turns away from Blackwall and Varric, pushing at them so that they are forced to backtrack down the stairs, and takes a bold step forward, ramming her sword against her shield with a loud clatter and announcing her presence,  
  
'Face the Inquisition, heretic!'  
  
Jerking his shoulders upwards in a violent start, the cultist whirls on his heels and peers at Cassandra from beneath his hood.  
  
'Another one of the elf's goons, I see?' he remarks disdainfully, nodding at the white eye symbol that marks the chest plate of Cassandra's armour. 'The used tool you took from the Elder One may have cleared a path for you... But I am afraid this is as far as your intrusion goes'.  
  
As he finishes speaking, he lifts both hands, his open palms facing Cassandra, and shoots at her with a spitting lightning coil.  
  
Unlike the spell of his tender-fleshed underling, this charge of magic successfully reaches its target. Cassandra does not even attempt to dodge the incoming jagged shock bolt; nor does she raise her shield to protect herself like she did Varric. She just stands there, right in the path of the Venatori's magic, with her head raised up high and her expression perfectly composed and confident - quite unlike the distressed look of the two men behind her. They are ready to rush to her aid, to pull her to safety (by force, if need be) - but it takes far faster for the spell to cross the distance between Cassandra and the Venatori.  
  
As the lightning hits her, instantly sending a powerful paralyzing impulse through her limbs, the Seeker shudders momentarily, and then falls, knocked to the ground like one of those target dummies she like to practice on (when Blackwall is too bruised for a sparring session). The cultist chortles to himself in malicious self-satisfaction - but before his chortle can turn into a full-blown villainous cackle, he almost gets knocked down to the ground by a wave of pure, silvery-blue light, which seems to have been made liquid, spilling across the keep's upper floor in powerful ripples. Rushing from the place where Cassandra fell, the light reaches Alexius and the Inquisitor, pouring all over them in a shimmering, refreshing stream.  
  
'Well I'll be a roasted nug!' Varric breathes hoarsely. 'She did that Seeker thing! Shit, the Time Lord better be prepared to pay her back!'  
  
The 'Time Lord', it turns out, is very much prepared. When, having flared up into a bright burst of vivid blue, the healing energy begins to wear off, it becomes apparent that the red mark on the front of Alexius' robes has stopped growing, and he has enough strength to not only straighten out his own shoulders and lift his heavy, drooping head, but also get to his feet and even help Yavanna do the same.  
  
The Inquisitor, too, seems to have come to her sense; still leaning against Alexius, she blinks a few times and inhales a tremendous draught of air through her open mouth, as though she has been underwater all this time, and would have drowned if she had lingered below the surface but one moment further.  
  
'Ge... Gereon... You are here...' she smiles giddily, reaching out to stroke Alexius' face. 'Just like that time... in the tunnels...'  
  
He interrupts her by locking her in an embrace that almost lifts her feet off the ground.  
  
'I wish I could properly express my joy at seeing you alive,' he says, pressing a swift kiss on the elf's forehead. 'But that must come later'.  
  
With this rather formal announcement (which would have even sounded cold if he did not return the Inquisitor's smile, a net of soft lines appearing around his brightened eyes), Alexius lets Yavanna go, and, with a hovering cluster of ice crystals in one hand and a tiny flame tongue in the other, strides towards the cultist, who has by now recovered from Cassandra's unexpected 'Seeker thing'. The Inquisitor, in the meanwhile, darts off behind his back, to be reunited with her other companions, whom she has only just spotted, still a little bit groggy from having suddenly regained consciousness.  
  
'Varric! Blackwall! You... Oh no, what happened to Cassandra?!'  
  
As her singsong exclamation turns into an anxious outcry, Yavanna lowers herself next to the prostrate Seeker and places her hand on the magic burn mark on her cuirass.  
  
'She used that special ability of hers... Got knocked out just to aid you and the... and Alexius,' Blackwall explains. 'I keep telling her to stop hurling herself into the fray like that!'  
  
'Hey Hero, you can make your mother hen impression while fighting that crazy cultist,' Varric cuts in gruffly, while also joining the elf at Cassandra's side (his impatient manner rather resembles that of Alexius as he was in a hurry to save Yavanna). 'I will see if my potion works, and then join you'.  
  
He should probably have told the Warden to get moving while there was still something left of the 'crazy cultist' for him to fight: while they were talking, the two mages have already managed to exchange a few magic shots, increasingly loud, dazing, and destructive. The shard of ice, which Alexius threw forward the way a rogue throws a dagger, ricocheted off the translucent purplish shield that the Venatori had conjured up in front of himself; the glowing frosty projectile would have surely hit its own caster, if he had not melted it with his flame spell, sprinkling the dusty stone underfoot with a shower of thaw water. Falling back on his recently intended trick, Alexius promptly froze up the little puddle separating him from his foe, which sent him reeling on wobbly legs as the solid, even stone surface disappeared underneath a lumpy layer of ice. The cultist somehow managed not to fall down, but even so, Alexius gained an upper hand in the struggle, at least before the mercilessly hot sun rays wiped the floor clean again: while his opponent was staggering on the spot, he grazed his arms and torso in a few places with several jets of mage fire. Snarling in pain like a beast caught in a trap, the Venatori repaid his adversary in kind, pressing his left arm (which got especially badly burned) awkwardly against his chest. Most likely, it was due to his injury that his shower of fire bolts did not do too much drastic damage (though it did come rather close to singing Alexius' ferociously furrowed eyebrows); so, while the smoke from his spell was still hanging in the air, the cultist hurried to hide behind a new summoned ethereal shield and cast a healing spell on himself. Alexius, in turn, disrupted his barrier with a shot of ghostly, Fade-green fire - but by the time the arcane shield melted off into the air, the Venatori had already successfully treated him burned arm.  
  
Then, there have been a couple of shock blasts, coming from both mages at the same time and clashing in mid-air to brew up a short-lived miniature thunderstorm; seizing the moment, Alexius has tried to use magic to lift his opponent off the ground and thrust him right into the heart of this swirling electrified vortex, but apparently (seeing how strained his breath has become and how dark the soggy spots of sweat under his arms are) the spell would have required more magical energy than he is currently able to muster. Thus, at the present moment, just as his companions turn their attention to the battlefield, he is left rather despondently facing the other mage, whom he has only managed to make hover a little, with the tips of his boots scraping the stone, while the lightning vortex above rapidly shrinks into nothing.  
  
But even though Alexius is too worn out by this flashy duel to pull off what he has planned, he still has enough strength to keep his adversary suspended motionlessly in the air, linked to him by barely visible threads of shimmering magic - a convenient target for Blackwall's trusty old grappling hook.  
  
The Warden lunges forward, twirling the rattling chain in his grasp, while Yavanna watches him anxiously, flexing the fingers of her Marked hand in preparation for a staggering blast of Fade force that will be sure to dispose of the enemy mage once Blackwall pulls him closer (whereas Varric has made himself busy by uncorking his last potion bottle and carefully slipping the contents in between the half-open lips of the Seeker, whose head he is delicately supporting with his hand).  
  
The throw could not have been easier - but still, the hook misses, catching at nothing but thin air, and then falling to the floor with a loud metallic clamour. Despite being hurdled by Alexius' telekinetic magic, the Venatori has managed to cast one of those pesky teleportation spells, whizzing out of view before the could flying chain could reach him. And as he performed this magical stunt while still tied to Alexius, the long-suffering 'Time Lord' has disappeared with him.  
  
'Maker's balls,' Blackwall cries out in frustration, staring at the empty space where, but a few minutes ago, the two mages have been trying to set each other ablaze. 'When will they stop doing that!'  
  
At this point, Varric could have inserted some witty remark about how this sort of cliffhanger is beginning to grow rather stale - but he is more preoccupied by the fact that Cassandra's eyelids seem to have begun fluttering.


	11. Chapter 11

The lower part of the giant rock slab that supports Griffon Wing's foundation rather resembles a pin cushion, with enormous triangular chunks of metal extending in all directions, casting long, needle-like shadows over the sandy wastes. It is on one of these massive spikes that the two mages reappear after Macrinus' teleportation spell has snatched them off from the keep's upper level, their robes flapping in the hot desert wind and their stance a little unsteady as they try to keep balance.  
  
The fortress's walls are now separated from them by a solid mass of red sandstone, while far below their feet, lies a dark chasm, seemingly filled with nothing but heavy, noxious air, which ripples, mud-like, in the sweltering heat, appearing to be coloured a murky shade of brown, permeated with the odour that rises from the rotting corpses of burns and other hapless animals, which can be seen on protruding ledges along the precipice's walls.  
  
'Did you bring us here on purpose?' Alexius asks, glancing cautiously around him. 'For extra drama?'  
  
When his gaze falls on the gaping abyss under his feet, his heart gives a sickening jolt. Quite in spite of himself, he is reminded of a similar chasm that opened before his eyes when (thankfully, for a very short while) he was locked up in a new cell in Skyhold, awaiting his trial. For some unknown reason (perhaps due to a powerful explosion of magic caused by the previous owners of the Inquisition headquarters), a large section of the floor in the centre of the dungeon was missing, making almost all the cells face a nauseatingly deep pit, with wisps of vapour from a roaring mountain waterfall frothing at the bottom.  
  
Trapped behind a sturdy iron gate, despondent and forlorn, Alexius found himself strangely mesmerized by this cloudy abyss. Even as the overwhelming depth of the chasm made his head swim and his heart clench into a tiny ball somewhere at the very bottom of his chest, he could not bring himself to look away, his hands gripping convulsively at the metal bars of his cage and unshed tears scorching his eyes for lack of blinking. The utter emptiness before him seemed to suck him in, to beckon him, in a tantalizing, unspoken voice, stronger than the memories of all the sincere conversations he had so far exchanged with his unexpectedly friendly enemy.  
  
What could the Herald, with her youth and the joy of her recent triumph, know of the way he felt? What could she teach him of hope and faith and kinship? He was nothing, the abyss whispered; he was worth nothing, he had nothing. Not any longer. He had no home, no cause to follow, no family that he could love and that could love him back. No reason to keep on waking up, to keep on moving, thinking, breathing. He was nothing, no matter what the Herald told him - so why not embrace it? Why not accept the invitation extended by the abyss, and become one with it, to merge its all-consuming emptiness with his own? Of all the punishments the Inquisition might have in store for him, a headsman would surely be the kindest.  
  
Flinching as he recollects his thoughts before the judgement, Alexius forces himself to turn away from the boiling pit of hot air below, and instead turns his gaze to Macrinus, who lets out another small, rather manic cackle.  
  
'Perhaps I did,' he leers, raising his hand, his fingers linked with webs of lightning, ready to make a new addition to their ongoing spellcasting spar.  
  
'Perhaps I did. When I cast you down into the precipice, it will be a fitting symbol of how low you have fallen'.  
  
Alexius shakes his head slightly, a wry smirk playing on his lips - and tries to cast his telekinesis spell once again. This time, he pulls it off properly, raising Macrinus into the air with a decisive wave of his hand, and then locking an invisible chokehold around his throat, just the way he did when he confronted Halward Pavus.   
  
Back then, he was able to cast this powerful, draining spell because he was driven by anger - because he was appalled at the thought that the man who had what he, Alexius, would have sacrificed the world for was not only blind but also unspeakably cruel and selfish. But now, there is something completely different that mounts within him, bolstering his reserves of magical energy. Now, his strength returns to him because he remembers what happened after he stared into the abyss.   
  
He was woken up from his wretched, blank-eyed stupor by the sound of a rhythmic, slightly hoarse voice, which he had already heard before, in another dungeon, in another cell, but in the same state of yearning to become one with nothingness, to fall asleep and never wake up.  
  
'I could open the door for you,' the voice said, while a rag-wrapped hand rested on his shoulder, having appeared out of nowhere, as its lanky, messy-haired owner seemed to have glided through the iron bars as though they were no more than a light curtain of beads.   
  
'I could open the door, and take you by the hand, and help you fall. Down and down and down, your heart freezing in your chest, floating, fading, shattering, a stain of red on the rimy stone. This is what you want, this is what you think will help, and I want to help... But I don't know if you will get helped by this sort of helping. Because the soldier lived'.  
  
'Soldier? What soldier?' Alexius asked, cringing as if overcome by a violent headache, and looking up at the spirit boy before him - a familiar silhouette in a ludicrous hat, inky-black against the hazy light coming through the bars.  
  
'The healers had given up on him; every breath he drew filled his chest with hot, bubbling blood; he was to die a long, painful death, drawn out over hour after endless hour,' the boy intoned in reply. 'His body felt that, and each of his sinews screamed for mercy, so loud, so desperate, demanding, pleading, waiting, wanting... I was ready to help him, a dagger in my hand, firm and steady, just one gentle brush against his throat; he wouldn't have even felt it. He would have melted away into nothing, just like you want to melt; too much hurt, much too much, a heart so tired of bleeding it dreams of growing cold and still, and of never, ever having to beat again... But she stopped me - blue eyes widened, tears splashing at her eyelashes, also loud, also pleading. You don't know if he will die; not for certain; none of us knows; that is how the mortal world works; sometimes it seems that there is nothing but darkness ahead - and yet, all of a sudden, the clouds part and the sun peeks out. I stopped, and wondered, and listened to the splashing tears instead of the screaming sinews. The dagger went back into its sheath, slipping, sleeping; I did not do my helping... And then the soldier lived'.  
  
Just as before, the spirit's enigmatic explanation did little other than making Alexius scowl even more.  
  
'What does any of this have to do with me?' he asked wearily.  
  
'She did not want the soldier to die, sincerely stubborn and happily hoping and fiercely full of faith... She does not want you to die either. She never wanted you to die: not when there were shadows that never were, not when there were stumbling footsteps in the snow and two hearts beating in the dark. And she does not want you to die now. Her door locked from the inside; her bed still so strangely, un-Dalishly soft as she curls up on the covers, hugging her knees; her back and shoulders hurting under the weight of a new word, a word she did not ask for. Inquisitor. Inquisitor. Inquisitor, I understand that the responsibilities of your station can be overwhelming, but you will have to come out and judge the prisoner sooner or later! I can't, Josephine; I heard people talking - they want him dead... But I can't sentence him to death... Or to prison. I promised - I promised him it would be all right... And also - his name is not Prisoner; his name is Gereon'.  
  
Hearing the spirit boy recount what he guessed to be the argument between his cheerful... former nemesis (Herald, Inquisitor... That elf was certainly reaping the fruit of her victory over him) and one of her advisors, Alexius remembered, with powerful, vibrant clarity, what the abyss had almost made him forget. Every conversation that he shared with the Herald... with Yavanna. Every embrace, every gentle touch to warm his frozen hands, every encouraging smile, every instance when he sensed an odd, tingling sort of feeling stirring within him, as they addressed each other by their first names (which, somehow, sounded much better than 'Magister' and 'You meddlesome thief!'); and every time she attempted to get him involved in all manner of undignified foolishness, be it rolling snow into little balls and throwing them around, or starting a loud, unabashedly gleeful song.   
  
And then, the boy swivelled his head and gaped at him, his pale eyes seeming to glow in the semi-darkness, wide open and filled with wonder.  
  
'You are not empty any more,' he declared. 'You are not empty. Not nothing. You thought you were, but you aren't. How can you be nothing? A person can't protect nothing. A person can't be friends with nothing. A person can't lay curled up in bed, crying, because she wants nothing to stay alive'.  
  
It was out of character, perhaps - feeling so profoundly moved, almost to the point of drawing tearful sighs, by the thought that this elven girl, whose death he had once so meticulously plotted, cried for him, and swore, time and again, that she would let him live. Yes, definitely out of character. Most unbecoming for a scion of Tevinter... But at least this feeling made him look away from the chasm that beckoned him. And now that he has found himself faced with a similar gaping precipice, it is also this very same feeling that helps him look away again.  
  
'You are right, amicus,' Alexius says simply, steadying his breathing and focusing with all his might on tapping into his remaining inner reserves of magic, as it will soon be time for the most difficult (and the most impressive, if he does say so himself) part of his spell.  
  
'I did fall. Lower than you could ever fathom. But I was fortunate enough to come across people that helped me get up. You, on the other hand, shall not be so fortunate'.  
  
Having said that (and having allowed himself the small luxury of revelling in the pop-eyed, clueless look that Macrinus gives him as he hangs over the metal spike, his limbs jerking in silent agony), Alexius makes a small gesture with his hand - a mere flick of his wrist, which is not even particularly noticeable. It seems effortless, casual, lazy even - but in reality it is what Alexius has been bracing himself so determinedly for.  
  
This simple, deceptively vague motion sets off a staggering force wave, which knocks Macrinus square in the chest and then snaps the invisible bindings that have been holding him in place. With a tremendous half-circular flap of his arms, the Venatori falls into the steaming maw of the precipice, rushing swiftly out of view, his robes making him look like a black, tainted blossom that first folds its petals and then shrinks into a tiny, withered dot.  
  
Before Macrinus sinks completely into the boiling sea of rancid air, Alexius thinks he can hear him scream, 'Master! I will join you in your glory!' - and the thought of how villainously clichéd this last outcry sounds, and of how ready he himself once was to scream these very same words, lunging himself at the Inquisition, makes him bury his face in his palm.


	12. Chapter 12

Damn, shit just got complicated. Varric has been trying to swerve around this bleedin' mess somehow, to evade it with one of his roguish moves, to toss a flask with befuddling fog at it and then sneak out, whistling, with his hands deep in his pockets. And yet, here it is, staring him in the face - both figuratively and literally, as Cassandra has slowly lifted her head, the warmth of the healing potion gently touching her chiselled cheeks, and looks up at him, as though expecting him to crack some joke. But that's just it - he doesn't feel like cracking a joke right now. He is too shaken up after holding her in his arms, and shivering at the thought of how cold her skin looked, and feeling her weight, heavy and sort of... lifeless, like the weight of some stupid useless cloth sack rather than a human being. And worst of all, after thinking all those damnable thoughts about what would happen, to the Inquisition and to him, first and foremost, if she never woke up.  
  
Oh shit, shit, shit - he doesn't do this sort of thing! He tried his best - he worked his pants off! - not to do it even while dealing with the Bartrand disaster; and recently, too, when Cassandra kept poking him to see how he felt about the Choir Boy deciding to play invader and to make every random townsperson pay for what Blondie did...  
  
He just - he doesn't do angst! He is not supposed to do angst - he is supposed to be the nonchalant sidekick, the calmly sly best friend, who once let Hawke sob into his gloriously hairy chest, whimpering something about Broody being too scared to love her; and who now does things like patting Sparkler reassuringly on the back, as the poor sap stares ahead into nothing, talking to himself in a drunken epiphany,   
  
'This was not meant to happen... This was meant to be just a fling in between battles... Back home, a man who is involved with another man never dares to ask for more... And yet... What I feel now is... is unde... undeniably... Tell me, Varric, am I falling in love with Bull?'  
  
Excellent question, Sparkler. Excellent question. He is asking himself the exact same thing right now. Well, not the exact same thing, per se. Not in relation to Bull, that is.   
  
And Andraste's tits, he doesn't want to answer that. The very fact that the question is there already complicates things - and if the answer turns out to be yes, then he'll really be up the proverbial creek without a puddle. For starters... Won't that make him the villain of this needlessly convoluted romance story, if first he sticks with one... special person through thick and thin, despite there being miles and miles in between them; if first he keeps her close to his heart even when she gets married off to another - and then, suddenly decides to settle for the nearest big angry human instead? It's bad enough that he got Hawke (and the whole world with her) dragged into this whole Corypheus business - now it looks like he might mess up Bianca's life even more...  
  
All right, Varric. Pull yourself together. Remember: you are not supposed to do angst. Here, look: the Seeker's conscious, so you won't have to toss ash at your chest hair and wail over her death. Now, say something stupid that will make her let out that bespoke disgusted noise of hers, and then yell at you; maybe even try to throw you over the battlements once she recovers enough. This oughta dispel that question, right? Right?  
  
Okay then, so you can't think of anything, and decide to just act like a dumb old tree stump and prop her up while she gets to her feet. That works too. No problem. You've got this. Just distract yourself with something, before all those feelings get brewing again.  
  
Hey, and here's a good one - just as Cassandra gets up and marches towards Blackwall, demanding a report on how the battle went while she was unconscious (because of course that would be her first instinct!), they hear a voice, calling out to them, somewhere from way, way below the stone platform with the flapping Tevinter banners,  
  
'At a risk of demeaning my dignity: a little help would be appreciated!'  
  
The little elf's eyes grow even more like a pair of large round blueberries than normal; with a squeaky little cry, she races towards the jagged, diamond-patterned battlements and leans over them, so far out that she almost loses balance. The others follow, Varric included - and presently see that the owner of the voice, the good old 'Time Lord', is looking up at them from a red, dusty stone ledge that protrudes from the keep walls' natural foundation.  
  
'Gereon!' Lavellan exclaims, in a gasping sort of voice. 'You are all right! I was so scared - the way you just got snatched away! Oh gods, what a relief... But how did you get all the way down there?'  
  
'Our black-robed friend thought it a good idea for us to continue our duel in more precarious surroundings,' the Tevinter responds, motioning towards a huge spike of metal that may be seen even further down. Evidently, he is putting a lot of effort into making himself heard (Andraste's flaming undies, it must take him a lot of lung power to say all those long words so loudly).   
  
'Something tells me,' the Time Lord goes on, 'That he did not particularly care whether his teleportation spell would work – but I myself would rather take no risks, now that… the danger has passed. I have Fade-stepped this far, but I am afraid that now the ascend has grown too steep for me to manage unaided'.  
  
'What of the Venatori?' Cassandra asks, her head appearing over the battlements next to the anxious elf's.   
  
'Dead,' the Time Lord calls back. 'You can always send your agents to check the bottom of this ghastly-smelling ravine if you need proof. Oh, and incidentally - I am...'  
  
He pauses, taking time to phrase his thoughts properly, and then declares, in a tone that sounds suspiciously... friendly-like,  
  
'I am not at all displeased to see you have recovered from the skirmish, Seeker! It was selfless of you to aid me and Yavanna as you did! Though...'  
  
After catching his breath, he concludes with a sarcastic quip (which almost completely dispels that friendly-like air),  
  
'Though I suppose I was just collateral, was I not?'  
  
'You most certainly weren't!' Cassandra reassures him. 'But how about rather than exchange pleasantries, we get to lifting you up?'  
  
'You refer to me as if I were a potato sack!' the Tevinter says, pretending to be insulted - and at the same time, sounding more jovial than Varric has ever heard (this probably has something to do with him turning his head slightly to meet Lavellan's eyes as he speaks).  
  
And so, after this exchange of light-hearted jests (Dammit, the resident quick-witted author should have been taking part in it like he usually does! Snap out of it, Varric, will you?) the Seeker and the bearded Hero hoist the latter's grappling chain over the fortress' wall, cautiously lowering it inch by inch till the metal hook thunks against the stone next to the place where their Tevinter companion is standing. The old mage, who is obviously not used to the kind of acrobatics that he is to perform, looks very doubtful at first, eyeing the hook as if it were some kind of foot-long centipede that has crawled out to warm its chitin sides in the sun; but after a few moments of scowling, he seems to decide that climbing back up the cliffs this way will be better than miscasting a teleportation spell and ending up with his 'nobly curving' (to quote Sparkler in re: himself) nose jammed in between two rocks.  
  
Thus, he fills his chest with a prolonged, bolstering breath of air, takes the lower end of the chain into his hands and finds a foothold on the rock before him, lifting his leg as far as his robes can allow (and, naturally, Blueberry has to blush and giggle).  
  
When in position, the Time Lord gives a nod to the two warriors, who keep watching him intently from the battlements. Understanding his signal, they tighten their grasp of the chain's upper end, pulling it taut; and a couple of moments later, the dwarven author gets to witness a scene that, if described properly, would make an instant hit: a middle-aged, snarky, and occasionally more than a little stuck-up Tevinter magister (well, ex-magister, but, to paraphrase that old saying, you can take the boy out of the Magisterium but you can't take the Magistetium out of the boy) making his way up a vertical wall as though he were some sort of cat burglar. So, Varric old friend, you'd better quit that moaning and groaning, and find the right words for the situation.  
  
Putting one foot in front of the other with tentative, strained slowness, the Time Lord braves the steep red cliff as best he can, 'I am too old for this' written all over his scowling face. Time and again, when a little bit of rock gets chipped off by the dragging hook, and rolls from underneath the climber's feet into the ravine below, the little elf (who is now following his progress with baited breath, all her giggles forgotten) bites nervously into her lips and clenches her fists, doing a skittish little dance on the spot, until Cassandra looks away from the chain and gives the anxious Inquisitor a reassuring nod... Like good old Aveline, the Seeker can be so damn caring when, for whatever reason, she finds herself unable to smash any nearby skulls... And watching her during these moments does nothing to help a fellow who struggles to shake off this melodramatic angstiness...  
  
But back to the arduous climb of the Time Lord: eventually (later rather than sooner; at least, it certainly feels like it) he drags himself onto a ledge that is only a small way below the platform and, looking up with his eyes narrowed intently, lets go of the chain and casts his teleportation spell. With a soft whoosh, he projects himself onto the battlements, landing precisely in the middle of a tiny square of stone, with a gaping drop on either side of him.  
  
During that fleeting moment when his figure is still halfway between a blurred blue shadow and a solid form, the mage (who must have gotten quite worn out after toiling with the chain) almost loses his balance and topples down into the jaws of the dusty nothingness behind his back - but the watchful elf gets to him before he can fall, grasping frantically at the folds of cloth on his forearms his arms and straining to pull him down to safety. When the Time Lord's feet hit solid ground, little Blueberry leans against him, her hands slowly sliding up his back, and whispers shakily,  
  
'Don't worry, Gereon... I've got you...'  
  
Poor kid, Varric says to himself. They have seen the kind of crap those raiders put her through (he's gotta wonder where they went; the bastards were nowhere to be found when they dealt with their mage buddies... Probably holed up somewhere, counting their ransom money). And after that nasty beating also came whatever magical crap Mister Black Robe In Charge put her through. Sure, her physical wounds got fixed up - but her mind, it seems, is only just now beginning to process the aftermath of all that torture. And with the mind cracking under pressure, the whole body follows.  
  
Suddenly, the elf's limbs grow limp and sort of wobbly and jelly-like (rather resembling deep mushroom stalks after you prod at them); and instead of supporting the Time Lord, like she clearly intends to, she drags him down to his knees by her side. After they both lower themselves on the ground, she buries her head in his chest, shuddering all over, and the gentle touch of her hands, which remain resting somewhere on the Time Lord's shoulder blades, turns into a claw-like grip.  
  
'I...' she tries to speak in between tremulous, sobbing intakes of breath. 'I... They... '  
  
The old mage, who started violently at the sudden change in Blueberry's demeanour, shakes off some of his astounded stupor and locks his arms around the quivering, whimpering elf, tilting his head downwards and rubbing his cheek against hers.  
  
'You have it all wrong, Yavanna,' he whispers, shifting one hand to run his fingers through her hair, while his lips press lightly against her forehead. 'This time, I've got you'.  
  
Then, his expression changes, just like the elf's has: like her, he has begun to crack.   
  
'I was so afraid,' he says quietly, closing his eyes and knitting his eyebrows; his thin lips twist, as if in pain, and his fingers, still cupped around the elf's scalp, begin to tremble.  
  
'I was so afraid I'd lose you... I was ready to do the most... foolhardy things, just to get to you in time... When I said... danger has passed... I meant... I meant danger to you... I would have... I would have gladly thrown myself against those rocks... If it meant saving you'.  
  
Blueberry lifts her head and smiles, her puffed-up eyes turning into gleaming crescents.  
  
'Just don't go around destroying worlds on my account'.  
  
Before replying, the mage mirrors the elf’s smile.  
  
'You know me,' he says, a shade of his Tevinter snark returning to his voice. 'I cannot give you any guarantees'.  
  
After this little exchange, the two of them, still on their knees and still clinging on to each other, share a small laugh, subtle, intimate, clearly meant for the just the two of them. Somewhere in the background, worlds away from them, the three bystanders exchange silent, understanding looks: Blackwall seems thoughtful and rather surprised by something; Varric finally finds it in him to forget about his sodding angst and give the Time Lord and Blueberry a grin (at least some people are happily together and don't have to deal with complicated shit; that's always a good thing); and Cassandra looks like she will put up her trusty shield wall and duck behind it to conceal a blush.  
  
'I... I think we might as well claim this fort for the Inquisition,' she says, coughing. 'Put up temporary tents... Send word to our agents...'  
  
'Let's do this,' Blackwall concurs. 'Completed missions are best talked about around the campfire'.


End file.
